


Garnet

by Shadowdust258



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Love, Sexual Content, Siblings, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdust258/pseuds/Shadowdust258
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative Universe fic in which Gendry is the highborn and Arya is at the bottom of the food chain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mimzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimzie/gifts).



The wooden stick crashed down on her elbow and it was all Arya could do to grit her teeth to stop herself from crying out. That hit would definitely leave a gigantic bruise, but Arya persevered anyway, swinging her stick forward to strike it against her opponent’s. The clashing sound that followed was like music to her ears and Arya could not help but smile, despite the pain. They parried for a few more minutes before the young girl got a good hit in, and her opponent fell to the ground.

With a chuckle, she swung her pretend sword in a victory movement. 

Panting, she lay down her sword and dropped to the ground. “I told you I could beat you,” she said, triumph causing a wide smile to appear on her face. He was so much bigger than she was, and she had still won, so she decided she might as well take pride in that fact.

“That you did,” the boy said, raising himself from the ground and smiling back at her. “I must admit I’ve never been challenged by a little lady before.”

Tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, Arya corrected him, “I am no lady,” she said adamantly.

The black-haired boy raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. “I salute your skill, my lady,” he teased before laying back down in the grass, closing his eyes and enjoying the hot afternoon sun.

Arya groaned. What a stupid boy. She wasn’t a lady any more that this boy was a lord. Lords and ladies lived in castles, and Arya had never set foot in a castle in her entire life. She had to admit though, that despite his stupidity, this boy would be quite a useful sparring partner. It was so hard to find someone who was a challenge and who would duel with a girl. People were silly creatures. “We’ll do this again,” she announced.

The boy opened one eye and looked at her quizzically. “Was that an invitation?”

“It’s the only invitation you’re going to get,” Arya replied, sinking to the ground and closing her eyes.

“I guess I’d better accept then.”

“I’ll beat you every time, you know,” Arya warned.

“I’m quaking in my boots, my lady.”

Arya frowned. They were going to have to do something about that nickname. It would drive her daft if he kept calling her that. 

Moments later, she begrudgingly rose from the soft grass of the riverbank. She needed to get home before her parents sent her brothers out to look for her. Dusting herself off, she glanced over at the boy. He was handsome, she thought. His hair was thick but messy, and his eyes were the most extraordinary blue colour. Sansa would have liked the look of him. She figured he was around about the same age as Jon and Robb, her older brothers. “I’m going home,” she said finally, as she began to walk away. 

“Goodbye,” the boy called, sitting up. “Hey, wait! I don’t know your name.”

The girl turned back. “It’s Arya. And yours?”

“I-,” he swallowed thickly. “My name is Gendry,” he said. The tone of his voice made it sound as if he was unsure of his own name. 

Arya thought he was a very strange, very stupid boy indeed.

\-------------------------------------------------

“Arya, there you are!” She heard Bran shout, as she turned the corner towards home. Her younger brother came rushing towards her. Startled, Arya paused and gave him a curious look. Bran didn’t always look so eager to see her. In fact, a lot of the time they ended up arguing over who was the better archer, or who was the best at swordplay whenever they spent any time together. “Come quick,” he urged.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the king!” Bran said excitedly.

“What about the king?”

“He’s here! In our house!” 

Utterly confused, Arya could only splutter out one word questions. “What? Why?”

“Robb saved Prince Tommen’s life today down by the lake. He was going to drown and Robb saved him!” Bran’s complete delight at the tale warmed Arya’s heart. He really idolised his big brothers, as Arya did herself.

“Come on!” he said, as he tugged her hand.  
\--------------------------------------------------------

Arya hardly had time to contemplate what a bizarre sight it was to see the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' sitting at her dining room table, surrounded by her family members and his guards, before his blue eyes were trained on her.

“Seven Hells,” he muttered quietly to himself.

Arya cocked an eyebrow. She knew her clothes were dirty and her hair was unkempt, but even a king should be able to control such rudeness in another person’s home. It wasn’t as though she had been expecting the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' to ever grace her house with his presence, least not tonight. All she had wanted was to sneak through the window and change her clothes before her mother saw the state of her and scolded her silly. The king had kicked that plan sorely in the ass. Now she was bound to be lectured the moment he left, from her mother and most of all, from Sansa. 

She sniffed quietly, thoroughly unimpressed with inconsiderate royals. 

The king drained his wine in one gulp and Sansa rushed forward to refill his goblet, careful not to spill a drop. 

“Your name is?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Arya’s face. 

“Arya,” she answered and hurriedly followed with a, “Your Grace” after seeing the look of horror on her sister’s face. If she were not so annoyed, she would have burst out laughing. 

“And what have you been up to?” he said, indicating her inappropriate attire.

Arya raised her chin. “Duelling,” she replied, in a voice that dared him to mock her for her unorthodox pursuits. 

Laughter rumbled through the king’s large body, and drops of wine landed in his beard. Arya could almost hear Sansa’s heart palpitations, and she could see Bran trying to contain his laughter out of the corner of her eye.  
“She’s a feisty little thing, isn’t she?” The king exchanged a look with her father. He had a look of curiosity about him, as if he was mulling over something that was troubling him deeply and for the first time in her life Arya thought she saw a hint of fear in her father’s eyes. Taking another gulp of wine, the king continued, “My children run around like wild animals. Never know where they are half the time. I see you have the same problem,” he said, nodding at Arya herself.

“Yes, Your Grace,” her father replied, in a steady voice.

Arya took a seat next to Bran and listened as her parents made polite chatter with the king, as he drank his way through three more glasses of wine at a quick pace, belching occasionally. Scratching the edge of the wooden table, Arya wondered why her mother, who had always brought her children up to be well-spoken, was now spewing out low-born phrases like it was going out of fashion. Surely, if you were in the presence of a king you should do the exact opposite. The young girl came to the conclusion that she would never understand matters of etiquette. Then again, it was not as though she would ever have much opportunity to use them anyway. 

Draining his goblet, the bearded man stood up. Everyone else followed suit, bowing and curtseying. He thanked Robb once again for saving the young prince’s life before thanking her parents for their hospitality. 

The king paused at the doorway, addressing her father. “What was your surname again?”

“Snow, Your Grace,” her father answered.

“A bastard of the North?” King Robert said as he looked around their modest home. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

With that he was gone into the night. His guardsmen followed closely after.

Arya swore she heard her mother let out a sigh of relief as the door slammed shut.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Arya was reading a book when she heard shuffling feet enter her room. “Bran?” she said when her brother’s face came into view, “What do you want?”

“I’ve never seen mother or father look so terrified,” Bran whispered. Arya could see in the candlelight that his expression was a mixture of uncertainty and fear. 

Before she could reply, the low echo of voices travelled up from downstairs. Motioning for Bran to stay quiet, she moved out into the hallway to listen. He followed her closely, and they sat knee-to-knee on a step of the staircase, straining to listen to the conversation between their mother and father in the dining room.

“I thought for sure he was going to recognise you,” Arya heard her mother say. “I don’t like this, my husband. I fear for our family’s safety.”

Arya and Bran exchanged a look, and the young girl could see that her brother had no more clue of what was going on than she did. 

“Hush, it’s over now,” she heard her father murmur; “I doubt the good King Robert will even spare us a second thought. It’s been sixteen years since he last saw me and he drinks more now than he did back then.” 

“We’re right under the king’s nose here,” Catelyn protested.

“And the last place they’ll look is in their own backyard. We’re safe, Cat.”

“But did you see the way he looked at Arya?” Her mother’s voice was ripe with emotion, and Arya struggled to think of any reason why. Why had the king looked at her so strangely? And why on Earth were her parents so terrified of their identities being found out?

But even more importantly, who were her parents? Who was she?

A maelstrom of thoughts collided in her head and Arya could not make head nor tail of any of them. 

Just a few hours ago life had been so simple, when she had been sparring with that boy named Gendry.

“What are you two doing?” a voice asked from behind them. Arya felt Bran jolt beside her, and she laid a hand on his knee to keep him from falling down the stairs before whipping her head around to face her sister.

“N-nothing,” Bran stammered from beside her.

“Why was father worried about getting recognised by the king?” Arya asked her firmly. She wanted answers and she wanted them now. If Sansa had the answers then Arya was bloody well going to extract them from her.

Sansa rolled her eyes, a habit she seemed to be perfecting as of late. “Gods, Arya!” she whispered furiously. “You can be so dense! Haven’t you ever wondered where we come from? We do not fit in here. We never have. We are not like the other townspeople.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arya asked.

Sansa just shook her head and walked away, apparently deciding that Arya was a lost cause.

Bran got up and made his way up the rest of the steps before looking back to see if Arya was following.   
She did, but not before one last sentence drifted up from her father’s mouth to reach her ears. “They won’t be children forever and winter is coming.”

Winter is coming.

_Winter is coming._

Where had she heard that before?


	2. Chapter 2

Gendry could hear his drunken bellows from halfway across the castle. Sighing, he made haste towards his family’s living quarters. It appeared the guards had not been able to placate the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' tonight.

The young boy did not blame them. Whenever they tried to lessen the king’s indulgences, they ended up being threatened with flogging or, if the king was in a particularly happy mood, the executioner’s blade. Neither option seemed to appeal much to the men of the Kingsguard, surprisingly enough, so they kept their lips tightly sealed when the king went on a drunken rampage.

As he turned the corner, Gendry heard the sound of glass smashing violently off a wall. Frowning, he entered the room the noise had come from. Before him, the king sat at the wooden table, clearly in the middle of some huge rant, about what only the gods knew. A couple members of the Kingsguard were also present, one stationed to the left of the king and the other to the right. They were actively trying to ignore the insults and curses falling from the king’s tongue, and they kept their gaze fixed to the wall in front of them, their eyes boring holes into the stone. Gendry waved them away, and they went gladly, the relief showing on their faces.

As the door closed shut, the king seemed finally to notice his presence.

“There you are,” he said, barely glancing at Gendry. Within seconds, his attention was focused elsewhere. Seeing as he had destroyed his glass, he now had no instrument to pour his beloved wine into. Settling for drinking straight from his wine bottle, he refocused his attention on his oldest son.

“You’ve had enough, Father,” Gendry protested, as the man before him gulped down another mouthful.

“You don’t tell me what to do, boy. Nobody tells me what to do,” Robert warned.

It took all of Gendry’s strength to stop an eye roll. Something told him his loving father wouldn’t appreciate that very much.

Suddenly, the king swayed on his chair, the alcohol making him woozy, and Gendry hurried to catch his elbow to steady him. “Get me to my room, boy, before I piss myself or pass out,” the king ordered.

“Yes, Father,” Gendry muttered.

Taking his arm, Gendry slowly led the king out into the hall and towards his bedchambers. A lone knight swept past, running towards the rooms of the Hand of the King. The young boy wondered momentarily what that was about, but he didn’t give it much more thought as the king stumbled, mumbling insults at the stray knight, and gripped the prince’s arm tighter. Gendry could already feel the bruises beginning to form, but he didn’t protest.

Reaching the king’s chambers, Gendry led him inside and sat him up on the side of the bed.

“Quick, boy!” the king said. Being as they had done this countless times before, Gendry knew exactly what he wanted. Grabbing the basin from nearby, he laid it on the king’s lap before quickly looking away. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he heard the king deposit the contents of his stomach into the basin, the stench of vomit filling the air.

“I saw her,” he said when he finished.

“Saw who?” Gendry asked, taking the basin from the king’s hands and laying it near the bed.

“Lyanna,” the king said. A smile formed on his lips, which Gendry thought looked absolutely horrid, as drops of vomit still clung to his greying beard. “I saw Lyanna.” The name was smooth as honey coming from the king’s lips, so unlike his usual roughness.

“All of the Starks are dead,” Gendry reminded him, as he helped his father into bed. The king immediately fell into a drunken slumber.

Hearing light footsteps, the prince whipped his head around and came face to face with Varys, a member of his father’s Small Council.

“Pardon me, my prince,” the eunuch said with a bow. “But might I have a word with the king? I have urgent business.”

“He’s sleeping,” Gendry answered, “Whatever it is can wait until the morning.”

“Of course, my prince.” The eunuch walked slowly to the door, turning once his pale hand rested on the doorknob. “Did I hear the king say he saw Lyanna Stark?” he asked, a look of curiosity troubling his features. His eyes were deceptively innocent.

“All of the Starks are dead,” Gendry repeated.

“Quite,” Varys replied, with a smile, before leaving the room. His smile unnerved the young prince. It was as if the eunuch was always one step ahead of everybody else in Westeros.

Gendry knew for certain that he would never learn to trust that man.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As he made his way down the halls towards his own bedchambers, Gendry spotted a familiar mop of blonde curls inside one open door.

Leaning against the doorframe, the young boy said, “I see the guards are doing an alarmingly terrible job.”

“Gendry!” the little girl exclaimed, running towards him and enveloping him in a tight hug.

“Is there any particular reason you’re wandering the halls in the dead of night? You should have been in bed hours ago, sweet sister.” Gendry tried to put on a stern voice, but he could never quite manage it where she was concerned.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“What are you even doing here?” he said, gesturing around. It was hardly the most exciting place in the castle. Surely, she would have found more excitement out of her dolls and books in her own room.

She pointed at the wall in front of them, and it was only then that Gendry noticed the new portrait hanging there. “He even painted Joffrey with a smile on his face,” Myrcella commented.

Examining the painting, Gendry was amazed at how much it conflicted with his family’s real life personalities. His father looked trim and healthy and every inch the proper king, something Gendry thought was at odds with his real life persona. The young prince supposed that no one was a hero to those closest to him. The rest of his family members, including Gendry himself, wore beaming smiles. The prince shook his head, tearing his eyes from the painting. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

“Where were you today?” Myrcella asked. “I looked for you everywhere.”

“I went exploring.”

“Tommen fell into the lake this afternoon,” she informed him.

A frown formed on Gendry’s face. Tommen didn’t even like water, and the few attempts Gendry had made to teach him how to swim had been a complete and utter disaster. Why he had gone anywhere near a lake was beyond Gendry’s comprehension. “How is he?” he asked.

“He’s fine. Some town boy saved him,” she said before looking at him suspiciously, “What were you doing in town by yourself? Mother says you’re not supposed to go anywhere without Sandor.” Myrcella always followed the rules too closely for Gendry’s liking.

“And who is going to tell on me? You?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.” She looked positively outraged that he would suggest such a thing.

“Glad to hear it. Now, come on, little princess. Time for bed.”

“Will you give me a piggyback ride? Like when I was little?” She looked so sweet and innocent that Gendry could not deny her.

“Sure, I can do that,” he agreed, before bending down and letting her clamber up on his back, her little hands clasped around his neck.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Joffrey says you’re not our real brother,” Myrcella whispered as Gendry tucked the covers around her.

Gendry sighed. “I may not be your full brother, but I’m your brother in every way that counts.”

“But Joffrey says-”

“The day Joffrey says something of merit will be the day the dragons rise from the dead,” Gendry dismissed. “Now, sleep.”

“No, tell me a story,” she pleaded.

“Why don’t you read a book?”

“I’ve tried,” she said, as she searched for imaginary dirt under her nails. “The letters get all jumbled up in my head.”

“I’m not very good at telling stories, Myrcella.”

“Then just tell me about your day. It must have been more exciting than mine. I’ve been trapped inside the castle walls all day.”

Gendry sat down on the edge of the bed. “I met a girl today. We sparred and she beat me hands down.” The boy couldn’t help the smile that rose on his face as he remembered the feisty, young girl from that afternoon.

“A girl beat you?” she said, her eyes curious, as if he said something she didn’t quite understand. “What age was she?”

“Just a couple of years older than you, I suspect,” he said, “Now, sleep, little princess.”

Myrcella shifted to the side and sleep seemed to overcome her. The young prince began to rise from the bed and leave the room. “Gendry?” he heard her say softly as he neared the door. “Could I fight with a sword if I wanted to?”

“Yes, you can do anything you like,” he replied.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Rubbing his eyes, Gendry walked down the hall towards Tommen’s room. He wanted to make sure his little brother was doing well after his accident.

Opening the door, Gendry discovered that the sleeping boy was not alone. He closed the door and coughed to announce his presence. The fair-haired woman glanced up from her seat near the bed, stopping her strokes of Tommen’s hair. “Where is the drunken fool?” she asked.

“Bed,” Gendry replied, sitting down on the vacant oak chair next to her. “You know, you should not talk about him like that, especially in front of the children. He is still their father, and he is still the king.”

Cersei smirked at him. “Such loyalty. He has never spoken such kind words about you.”

Gendry knew that was true. His father thought him weak, as he had not yet seen a real battle first hand. But with the Iron Islands threatening to rebel again at any time, that possibility was becoming more and more real. “They are not kind words. They are facts,” he replied.

“And the fact is that our wonderful king is a drunken, old fool.” Cersei said, as she took a gulp from the goblet of wine she held in her hand.

“Are you sure you’re in a position to talk about drunkenness?” Gendry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Before she could reply, the door swung open, and Jaime Lannister stepped inside, stopping in his tracks when he saw Gendry. The young prince saw the knight swallow hard before looking to Cersei and giving her a nod. Looking at his stepmother, he saw a curious mixture of relief and pain clouding her eyes. She raised her goblet to her mouth and gulped down the rest of her wine swiftly.

Gendry glanced from one to the other, wondering what on earth had just passed between them. Jaime seemed to collect himself and asked, “How is my nephew?”

“He’s fine,” Cersei answered, barely looking at him.

“Good,” the Kingslayer replied, “I’d better get back to my duties. My queen. Prince Gendry.” He bowed and left the room, his footsteps echoing all the way down the stone hall.  
Cersei didn’t raise her eyes from Tommen’s sleeping figure, and the prince decided his time would be better suited trying to get some sleep. He excused himself and headed for his own chambers at long last, nodding at Sandor who stood guard outside.

Slipping into bed, he felt the exhaustion creep up on him suddenly. He could also feel a couple of tender spots, one on his arm and one on his thigh, where Arya had struck him that afternoon. Absently, he wondered if he’d see her again soon. He hoped so.

It took only minutes for sleep to consume him.

It was the next morning that word came that Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Swatting away a bee, Arya stood with her wooden stick in hand, facing her opponent. Her long braid drifted in the cool breeze of the early morning, as she surveyed the pint-sized boy in front of her.

“Go easy on him,” she heard Jon urge from behind her, “He’s just a child.”

Rickon scowled at Jon’s words. He hated being the youngest sibling, and Arya knew he could not wait until he was as big and strong as Robb or Jon. The young girl was struck by the determination in his eyes. She had a feeling that it wouldn’t be much longer until Rickon posed a real threat to beating her in their little sparring matches.

Smiling, Arya figured she was up for the challenge.

Suddenly, she heard the pitter-patter of feet coming closer at a swift pace across the rooftops. Looking in the direction of the noise, she saw Bran’s face come into view within seconds.

“Arya!” he called. “Come quick!”

Her interest piqued, Arya hurried to lay her stick down on the bench next to Jon and Robb, paying no mind to their amused faces, before scurrying over to climb the medium sized wall next to the house, where Bran waited. Jogging lightly over the remainder of the stone wall, she climbed onto the windowsill, praying to the old gods and the new that nobody inside saw her, and let Bran help her up onto the roof.

“Made it,” she grinned.

“Come on!” Bran urged her.

It was then that Arya noticed that Rickon was attempting to follow them, but he wasn’t quite tall enough to raise himself onto the stone wall. He gave the wall a frustrated kick, and Arya saw Jon walk over to try and placate him. She felt some pity for her little brother. It must be horrible to be the one who’s always left behind, but it wouldn’t be much longer until he was grown enough to come along on her little adventures with Bran or to duel with Robb and Jon.

Bran tugged on her elbow, spurring her to follow him.

She did, and within seconds they were racing across the flat rooftops towards the centre of town.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they clambered down the wooden crates next to the market, Arya was taken aback by the sheer number of people flooding the streets that morning. This was usually a busy part of town, but rarely had Arya seen quite so many people packed into one place. The smell of the merchants’ wares filled the air, and the chatter of the townspeople buzzed around her ears.

“So, what’s the big surprise?” she asked Bran, once she reached the ground.

His hand clasped her wrist and drew her behind the crates. “See that man over there? The one with the greying beard?”

The young girl looked in the direction he had indicated and nodded, glancing at her brother to see him completely enraptured by the man before them. Arya thought that was a bit odd. The man didn’t look that special. Besides, they had had the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' in their house just a few days ago. No one else could compare to that.

“He’s Ser Davos Seaworth,” Bran informed her.

“What’s so great about him?” Arya asked, raising an eyebrow. Of course, she had heard the stories of the part he had played in King Robert’s Rebellion, but King’s Landing was infested with lords and ladies. Arya wasn’t sure why Bran had felt the need to drag her here to see this particular one, even if he was ‘The Onion Knight’.

“He’s from Flea Bottom, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Arya said. She would have hated to live on the other side of Rhaenys’s Hill in Flea Bottom. The few times she had gone there to explore had been horrible experiences. The streets reeked of vomit and piss, and the last time she had narrowly escaped one drunkard who had taken a liking to her.

Jon had made her promise never to go back.

Arya knew that nobody lived in the slums because they wanted to. They lived there because they had no other choice, and it seemed that Davos Seaworth had been lucky enough to escape. Few were given that opportunity.

“But what I mean is, if a man from Flea Bottom can become a lord then mayhap that means that our lives don’t have to be determined by our birth.” Bran smiled softly to himself. “Mayhaps, I can become a knight.”

“Not with the way you swing a sword,” Arya teased. She was rewarded with a light punch to her arm.

“I’m better with a sword than you are,” Bran argued.

Arya smirked. “Care to test that theory?”

“Definitely.” Bran’s eyes held the promise of a challenge.

Trying to keep the smile off her face, Arya turned her attention back to the man across from them. “I heard he keeps the bones of his fingers in a pouch around his neck,” she said, wrinkling her nose is disgust. “Why in Seven Hells would someone do that?”

“Stannis Baratheon chopped them off because he was a smuggler,” he said.

“Well, maybe we should become smugglers then if that’s the way to become knights,” Arya jested.

“I am rather attached to my hand,” Bran said, looking down at his fingers, as if to check if they were still there.

“Pity,” Arya said with a laugh.

“Let’s go home,” Bran said, climbing up the crates. “I’m hungry.”

Arya took one last look at Davos Seaworth, who was still in an intense conversation with the merchant opposite them, before clambering up the first crate.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a mass of auburn hair flying down the street and disappearing into the alleyway to the right of Davos Seaworth.

_Sansa._

Arya could have sworn that it was her older sister. That shade of auburn was incredibly rare in King’s Landing. In fact, Arya hardly knew of anyone whose hair had been kissed by fire.

Sansa was complimented regularly by people on the colour of her hair. It was never a surprise when she was stopped on the street by admirers, and she never failed to blush prettily at their words, as if she hadn’t heard it all a dozen times before.

Although she would never in a million years admit it to Sansa, Arya was quite envious of her sister’s auburn locks. No one ever looked at Arya that way.

That was why Arya was always confused by her mother. Her mother always looked fearful whenever people complimented Sansa’s hair, and Arya could never understand why her mother seemed to detest her own natural hair colour. The young girl had never seen her mother without dye obscuring her natural redness of hair, but once in a while the auburn roots peeked through at her hairline. Why anyone would want to mask such a pretty colour was beyond Arya’s comprehension.

The young girl climbed the second crate to get a better view. If it really was Sansa, what would she be doing here?

“Arya?” Bran called, looking back at her.

“Go on ahead,” she replied. “I’ll catch up.”

Bran shrugged, his hair dancing in the wind, and began jogging over the rooftops towards their modest home.

Crouching down on the second crate, Arya angled herself to get a better view of the alleyway. She could see Sansa standing just inside the entrance, her head poking out of the shadows to examine the throng of people in the marketplace.

It looked as if she were searching for someone.

Arya couldn’t for the life of her figure out who it was she would be waiting for though. Sansa wasn’t usually one to go sneaking off to town without a family member or one of her idiotic friends accompanying her. That was more Arya and Bran’s style.

After a few moments, a young man stepped into the alleyway. He was well-dressed and Arya thought for certain he must be part of some noble family or at least a rich merchant family. No normal townsperson dressed like that. A quick glance down at her dirty breeches confirmed that. Not even Sansa, who spend hours upon hours sewing her own dresses, could transform the rough, cheap fabrics into ones of beautiful silk or delicate lace, though Arya knew it was not for lack of trying.

The moment Sansa saw him, her face lit up with the brightness of a thousand suns. Stunned, Arya tried to remember the last time she had seen her sister look so happy. She found that she could not remember. Not even the king’s visit had provoked this favourable a reaction. Clearly, this person was quite dear to her.

When the young man handed Sansa a flower with crimson petals, Arya turned her head away, suddenly feeling awful for watching the scene before her.

Slowly, she scrambled up the remainder of the crates and headed off down the row of houses, her footsteps echoing as she went.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She found him in their usual place later that afternoon. The boy was sprawled out on the ground with his eyes closed, his dark hair fluttering in the breeze.

“Wake up, stupid,” Arya said, delivering a light kick to his upper thigh.

Gendry jolted awake and glanced around, seeming momentarily confused by his surroundings. When his gaze landed on Arya, he smiled. “That’s not a very ladylike way to wake someone, you know,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing one of his bright, blue eyes with his free hand.

“I’ve told you before,” Arya said, as she held out a hand to help him up, “I am no lady.” His hand was warm despite the light wind blowing. It felt strong.

“I’m starting to realise that,” Gendry said, as he raised himself to his feet, picking up the two wooden sticks that had been strewn next to him on his way.

“Took you long enough,” she said, accepting one of the sticks from him.

He smirked and changed to a defensive stance, readying himself for her attack. Arya positioned herself, raising her play sword and cocked an eyebrow, daring him to strike. For once, she wasn’t going to go on the offensive. A change of tactics would stir things up, and mayhaps it might even give Gendry a chance to win. In the few days that they had known each other, he had won quite a few of their sparring matches, but Arya was most definitely the victor.

They sparred for a while, first one attacking and the other countering before switching roles. It took only a few minutes until Arya’s breath was coming quicker and quicker, as she attempted to overpower him.

Arya found that it was here, under the shelter of the trees, as the wind blew through her messy locks of hair, that she felt most alive.

Hearing the clash of the wooden sticks brought her joy, yes, but Arya couldn’t escape the thought that it was also the company that made these little excursions so enjoyable.  
Even though they had just met mere days ago, she felt as comfortable playing with him, as she would her own brothers. Gendry was kind and he was friendly, but he was also someone she could share her favourite pastime with.

Arya thought that might be a good basis for a friendship.

The swordplay lasted for a number of minutes, certainly one of the longest sparring matches they had had.

It was only when Gendry managed to get two good hits in at once that Arya fell to the ground. She could already tell that a humongous bruise was going to swell up on her thigh.  
“Idiot,” she cribbed, as she took his waiting hand to help raise herself from the hard ground.

“You’re making me blush with all these compliments, little lady,” Gendry said, his lips curving into a smile.

Arya whipped her stick and clocked him on the ankle at the sound of his annoying nickname.

“Seven Hells, Arya,” he said, his face contorting into a grimace for a couple of second until the pain evaporated. “You’re positively lethal.”

Arya just grinned, her smile growing bigger as he returned it.

He collected her stick before asking a simple question. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.

“Looking forward to it,” he said, and with one last smile he was gone.

Arya watched his retreating form, as it got smaller and smaller before disappearing completely.

Letting out a sigh, she decided that it was time to go home.

Absently, she wondered how she would attempt to cheer her father up this evening. He hadn’t been his usual, good-humoured self for the past few days. In fact, her father had been strangely quiet and sombre since Robb had brought home the news that Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, had died.

It was as if he was in mourning for a man he had never met.

Arya wondered if that was even possible.


	4. Chapter 4

Gendry walked swiftly around the corner, narrowly avoiding a gift a lovely pigeon had decided to drop from the sky above. Cursing the stupid bird under his breath, he strolled down the shabby row of houses, trying to pin-point which way to go next. It wasn’t often he wandered down this route, so it took him a few seconds to get his bearings.

“Are we lost?” he heard Arya ask from behind him, clearly noticing his hesitation.

“We’re not lost, little lady,” he replied, his lips curving up slightly, as her vicious mutterings reached his ears. The major dislike she had for that nickname only spurred him to use it more often. He turned to the right, and motioned for the young girl to keep up. Absently, he wondered what time it was. His presence would be expected at the castle earlier that evening to greet the numerous guests who were due to arrive that day.

“Do you live around here?” Arya asked, as they continued walking down the brick lane.

“Do you ever stop asking questions?”

“If I didn’t ask any questions, then I wouldn’t get any answers, would I? You don’t exactly volunteer information about yourself,” she grumbled.

Gendry’s felt a twinge in his stomach. He had been hoping to avoid this conversation, at least for a little while longer. It wasn’t often he found a friend he could just be himself around. 

Actually, it was never.

The time he spent with Arya was the only time he was allowed to forget that he was the heir to the Iron Throne. It was the only time he could just be Gendry; he desperately wanted to keep that freedom.

“We’re here,” he announced suddenly, making his way up to one of the houses and knocking sharply on the door.

A woman with hair the colour of straw opened the creaky door, and greeted them with warmth before leading them inside. “They’re over there,” the woman said with a smile. 

“Take your pick.”

Gendry walked over quietly so as not to alarm them, with Arya following close behind. The three balls of fur were sprawled out in front of the hearth, basking in the heat from the fire.

Reaching out tentatively, Arya stroked the top of one of their heads, her smile widening as the kitten began purring in response. Her small fingers disappeared into the soft, fluffy fur each time she stroked, and the delight she felt lit up her grey eyes. Gendry took the time to pay attention to the other two kittens, while the mother cat watched his every move from a few feet away, and the young prince was certain she was ready to pounce if he mistreated her babies.

“Well, which one are you going to take?” Arya asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor as the ginger kitten placed its front two paws on one of her knees, her pale fingers never leaving its fur.

After examining the kittens one last time, Gendry made his decision. He picked up the small, tabby kitten with the curious eyes. It seemed like a nice, quiet kitten and Gendry was sure that his little brother would adore it. “This little one, I think.”

“I second that motion,” Arya said, as she rubbed the little tabby behind the ears.

“Well, motion carried then,” Gendry said with a smile. It amazed him how much more easily his smile appeared outside the castle walls.

Arya gave the ginger kitten one last tickle behind the ears before rising to leave, a wistful expression on her face. “I wish I could get a pet, she said, “Mother wouldn’t allow it though. She says our house is fit to burst as it is.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be able to get a kitten someday,” Gendry said, as he nodded to the woman who was sewing patches onto a pair of breeches across the room.

The kitten snuggled into the crook of Gendry’s elbow, and closed his bright eyes, absolutely content in that position.

Arya slid the door open, and they were halfway down the street before she spoke again. “I don’t really want a kitten though.”

“Well, what do you want then? A dog?”

She shook her head. “I want a wolf,” she said, her eyes meeting his.

Amusement forced Gendry’s lips into a grin. “I don’t think wolves make the best pets, Arya.”

The young girl merely shrugged.

Gendry found he didn’t know what to make of her half the time.  
______________________________________________________________________________

When he reached his family living quarters, the kitten seemed to sense they had arrived at their destination. His iridescent green eyes opened wide as he took in his new surroundings.

As he passed the queen’s chambers, the young prince heard voices. Leaning on the open doorframe, he saw that his stepmother had already started her drinking for the evening. Gendry found that curious, as she usually didn’t consume even half as much as the king did. She must be stressed about the feast that evening, he supposed.

“Don’t bother. That’s my bed,” Cersei was saying, a distinct bitterness inherent in her tone. “He wouldn’t have gone near it.”

Gendry cleared his throat loudly. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

Glancing at him, Cersei had the grace to blush a little, or maybe her cheeks were just flushed from the wine. Gendry couldn’t tell for sure.

“No, no problem,” she answered quickly before turning her attention back to the brown-haired servant girl, who was on her hands and knees searching for something near the foot of the featherbed. “Did you not hear me? It’s not here. Go and search the king’s chambers.”

“I’ve already looked there, Your Grace,” the girl said in a timid voice.

“Well, go look again. Just get out of my sight,” the queen said, with a wave of her hand.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the girl replied, as she curtseyed low before darting out of the chamber as fast as her legs could carry her.

Gendry hardly had time to move to avoid a collision, stepping inside the chamber. “How much have you had to drink?” he asked.

“Not enough,” Cersei answered, “Go find your father. He probably has his cock buried deep in some whore, but bring him back. He needs to start getting ready for the feast. The gods know how big a job it is to get him looking presentable.”

Gendry couldn’t disagree with her in that regard.

Taking his leave, he decided to drop off the kitten to Tommen first. The tabby was beginning to get a little frisky, tired of being held for such a long time.  
The prince couldn’t wait to see the expression on his little brother’s face.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

He knocked once on the oak door before stepping inside, the kitten alert and curious in his arms.

Tommen looked up from the leather-bound book he was reading. In an instant, his face transformed to show an expression of pure joy. Gendry thought it was certainly worth the detour to pick up the little thing. “Is that for me?” he asked, his eyes wide with excitement. The words trembled slightly as they left his mouth, almost as if he was afraid to believe the kitten was his, for fear that it wasn’t.

“Of course,” Gendry replied, placing the kitten in the young boy’s waiting arms. “I thought you deserved a little treat after your accident.”

Gendry watched as his brother caressed the kitten’s silky smooth fur. Smiling, he sat down on the bed next to Tommen. He let the boy savour the first few minutes with his new kitten before speaking. “Tommen, what happened at the lake that day?”

The light immediately left the younger prince’s eyes, and his hand stilled. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, resuming his strokes. The kitten purred contentedly.  
“It’s just, you’ve always hated water,” Gendry said. He tried to keep his tone light. “You were with Joffrey that day, weren’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the boy repeated in a firm voice.

Gendry could see that it was getting nowhere so he rose to leave, giving an exasperated sigh as he went. “Don’t forget about the feast tonight,” he said, “Mayhaps you can show off your new kitten to the other children.”

The prince moved to open the door, but not before he heard his brother whisper. “Thank you, Gendry.”

Gendry got the feeling that he wasn't just thanking him for the kitten. He was also thanking him for not pressing the issue about his accident.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

After much time spent searching the castle, Gendry found his father sitting on a pew, close to the body of Jon Arryn.

“Father?” he said as he approached him. “It’s nearly time for the feast.”

The king glanced at him, and it was only then that Gendry discovered that his eyes were red-rimmed. He took another gulp from the skin of wine he held in his left hand. “Sit,” he ordered.

Being as his father was noticeably upset, the prince obeyed and sat on the pew beside him. He shifted his gaze around the room, looking anywhere but at the drunken man next to him. They sat there in silence for a number of minutes while Gendry waited for the king to speak. When a few minutes had passed, Gendry wondered if his father was expecting him to say something, or if the king just wanted a silent companion in his melancholy state. The prince figured his best option was silence. If he was unfortunate enough to say the wrong thing, then it would be his guts for garters after all.

“I have no one on this Earth that I trust,” Robert said eventually, his eyes glued to the floor. “I once had two people that I trusted more than anything. One I lost to my own stubbornness. The other is lying in that coffin.”

Gendry didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at his father. He didn’t move.

It was in that moment that Gendry realised that he had never once had a real conversation with his father. But he realised the reason why. He was ashamed of him. There was nothing more to it. But it was also in that moment that Gendry thought that their relationship could be salvaged.

His father had opened up to him, and some part of Gendry still hoped and prayed and wished that his father might magically turn into the father he had always dreamed of having. Some naive little part of him still held on after all these years.

“I’ve never been close to my brothers,” Robert continued, “but it’s the loss of the brother that I chose for myself that still haunts me.” The king drew in a deep, shaky breath. “When you are king, keep good people around you. Don’t let your rage blind you to who your true friends are, and have a good relationship with your siblings.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be particularly close to Joffrey,” Gendry said.

The king’s laugh was sour, holding the bitterness of a thousand lemons. “I suppose not,” he said, rising from his seat. “Oh, and Gendry?”

“Yes, Father?”

“Anger will keep you going for a while, but it will burn you up in the end,” he said, draining the last of his wine.

“You should stop drinking so much, Father,” Gendry tried.

The king laughed, a quiet, pitiful excuse for a laugh. “Don’t worry, son. This guilt will kill me long before the alcohol does.”

And with that the king left, swaying slightly as he walked, his eyes clouded with the nostalgia of times gone by.

________________________________________________________________  
As Gendry was wandering back towards his own chambers to change for the feast, he heard two distinct voices whispering in an alcove. He paused for a moment and listened, instantly recognising one voice, his Uncle Stannis.

“Well, what did you find out from the merchant?” Gendry heard his uncle ask.

“He swears he never sold poison to anyone resembling him,” another man replied.

“He could be lying,” Stannis said, his voice sounded like he was deep in thought.

“Not this merchant. I’ve known him since my days in Flea Bottom. I can guarantee that he would not lie to me.”

“Well, see what else you can discover and report back to me immediately if you find anything,” Stannis said in a low voice. “You’re the only man I trust with this.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Gendry inclined his head against the wall, his raven hair falling into his eyes, as the footsteps disappeared down the next corridor.

His thoughts had turned into a tornado rushing through his head.


	5. Chapter 5

Arya let out a sigh of satisfaction as she dropped her spoon into her empty bowl, and sat back, patting her full stomach. Every drop of her oxtail soup had been drained, and she could not help the smile that rose on her face after consuming such a delicious meal.

Glancing around, she saw Rickon eyeing the last piece of oat bread, a mischievous look in his eye, and Arya knew he was waiting for his chance to pounce and claim it for himself. He may have been small, but he was quick.

Bran’s spoon clattered in his cleared bowl just moments after Arya’s did. It was as if they were always competing against each other. At swordplay. At games. Even mealtimes had turned into a competition of who could scoff down their food the fastest.

Jon gave her a smile when her eyes met his, and she could see Sansa nibbling demurely on her slice of warm oat bread, savouring the tangy taste of dates, apple, and orange, in between chattering to Robb.

One by one, her family finished their meal and sat back to relax for a couple of minutes before going about their daily lives.

“Bran, I had a very interesting conversation with Old Jeyne this morning,” Arya heard her mother say.

Her little brother’s face instantly turned white, and Arya could not blame him. Old Jeyne had a nasty habit of complaining about all the children who lived around here. She didn’t like how they spoke, she didn’t liked how they acted, and she certainly didn’t like the fact that they existed. The wizened, old woman thought that children were a blight upon the Earth, but Arya thought the exact opposite was true. Old Jeyne was definitely a blight upon the Earth, if Arya had ever seen one.

“What did she want, Mother?” Robb asked, rolling his eyes slightly. He knew what Old Jeyne was like too.

“She wanted to inform me of an incident a few days ago in which it sounded like a herd of goats were being chased to the slaughter across her roof,” Catelyn said, a faint hint of amusement in her tone even though she was attempting to be stern. “Her words, not mine.”

Robb and Jon let out snorts of laughter, and Arya saw Bran stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from giggling. Sansa did not look quite so amused.

Catelyn cleared her throat, and suddenly the laughter stopped. “From now on, keep your feet on solid ground,” she said, focusing her eyes on her son for a second before turning to glance at Arya. “That goes for you too, Arya. I highly doubt Bran was alone in this.”

“Yes, Mother,” they replied meekly in unison. They knew better than to argue with her to her face, although they might still occasionally disobey her behind her back.

Catelyn stood up and began to gather up the bowls, with Bran and Rickon helping to pick them up, before heading to the kitchen.

When Arya raised her grey eyes to gaze out the window, she saw Sansa staring at her, an utterly superior look on her face, and a slight smirk threatening to appear on her lips. That irked Arya no end. As far back as she could remember, her older sister had always taken intense pleasure out of any situation in which Arya got scolded. Indeed, Sansa actually managed to get Arya in trouble a lot of the time as well.

In a flash, she stuck out her tongue at her older sister, knowing how much Sansa hated it when she acted unladylike. Though why Sansa felt the need to act like a lady in this part of town was beyond her comprehension.

Sansa’s face twisted in disgust. “Is it your mission to make me vomit up my food?”

The boys seemed to take that as their cue to leave and shuffled from their seats, heading quickly for the open doorway, not willing to sit in the crossfire between their two sisters.  
“And here I thought I was being discreet in my intentions,” Arya retorted before rising to follow her brothers out of the house, wanting to get away from her sister before she lost her temper entirely, which was a common occurrence where Sansa was concerned. Arya was four, she remembered, when she had realised that she and her sister should never occupy the same space for a lengthy period of time. It only led to insults, hair-pulling, and more scolding than Arya had the stomach for.

Just as she reached the doorway, Arya heard her mother call her. Unwillingly, she turned back around and waited for her to appear, aware of Sansa’s eyes on her the entire time.

“Arya,” Catelyn said, “I need you to stay inside today and help with the mending. Beth and Mylessa will be coming over, so you girls can keep each other company while I head to the market.”

The young girl felt her stomach churn. Beth and Mylessa were nearly as annoying as Sansa. An afternoon sewing with them would be one of true horror. Groaning internally, she nodded her head. It wouldn’t be fair to leave her mother with all the mending, though the gods knew Arya was useless it. Thankfully, the boys had learned not to complain about her stitches, unless they had a death wish, and Sansa always fixed her own clothes and their parents’ clothes, so she never had to fumble with her needle to try to get those mended neatly.

Sneaking a glance at Sansa, she saw that her sister’s face mirrored her own, an overwhelming expression of dismay marring her perfect features.

Unfortunately, that didn’t make Arya feel even an ounce better about being trapped in a confined space with Sansa all afternoon.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Frowning in concentration, Arya slipped the needle in and out of the grey fabric of Bran’s breeches. She stilled the needle for a second, sweeping a stray strand of uncooperative hair behind her ear. Glancing at her stitches, Arya once again was reminded that she was utterly useless at sewing. Indeed, she had already stabbed herself twice that afternoon, and it wasn’t as if her stitches had been worth the effort. Arya got the feeling that Rickon would be better at needlework than her, and that was saying something.

Sighing, she shot a quick glance at Beth and Mylessa. They were giggling and gossiping to their heart’s content at the other side of the room, ignoring Arya entirely. No doubt their stitches were perfect, she thought bitterly. The two girls were nearly as good as Sansa. Arya was trailing so far behind them in skill that she wasn’t even sure if they were in the same race.

Sansa had vacated the room twenty minutes ago in order to find a book that Mylessa must read immediately, and she hadn’t returned since. In that amount of time she could have walked to the market and purchased a new book. Arya resented her sister for deserting her and leaving her in the company of these two imbeciles. Knowing that listening to their inane chattering for one more second might cause her to explode and leave her guts lining the walls, Arya decided to be a dutiful hostess instead.

She hopped up and set her sewing down. “Would you care for some drinks?” she asked the other two girls.

Mylessa looked up from her conversation, seeming startled by Arya’s interruption. “Oh, that would be lovely,” she said, giving a sweet smile that Arya knew was fake.

The young girl practically sprinted for the door and sighed with relief the moment she entered the quiet, empty kitchen. For a few seconds, she contemplated jumping out the window and going to find Gendry, but she knew her mother was counting on her, so instead she stole a small piece of lemon cake and sat down at the kitchen table, savouring every last delicious bite.

After a few minutes, she felt a lot better, ready for round two of trying not to murder anyone with a sewing needle. It only took her a few seconds to pour some drinks and make her way back into the hallway.

She stopped still when she heard snippets of Beth and Mylessa’s conversation seeping through the walls.

“Do you think their brother will make an appearance today?” she heard Beth ask.

“Robb?”

“No. Jon,” Beth replied, her tone suddenly warmer.

Mylessa merely laughed. “Honestly, Beth. He’s a bastard of a bastard. You cannot get more lowborn than that. Mother would never allow such a match anyway, especially now Father’s shop is doing so well. Soon, we may be moving to one of the richer districts, and then we can leave these Snows behind in the dust.”

Arya’s hand was twitching to slap her. She hadn’t felt this strong an urge in quite some time. Gritting her teeth, she decided to listen to a little more.

“Are you sure they’re bastards?” Beth asked.

“Their last name is Snow,” Mylessa pointed out, an exasperated air to her voice.

“I know,” the other girl replied, “but they don’t act very lowborn, especially Sansa. I’d almost swear that she’s of fine breeding.”

“She certainly thinks she is anyway,” Mylessa scoffed.

Beth left out a nervous laugh. “Well, she’s better than the other one anyway.”

Arya knew they meant her, and she gripped the goblets of water so tightly in her hand that she thought they might break. Her knuckles were white, and it was taking all her strength not to go in there and teach them not to talk about her or her family that way. Jon didn’t deserve it, and Arya had to admit that, as annoying as Sansa was, she didn’t deserve to be spoken about like that either.

Mylessa said, laughing, “Arya has a face like a horse, and we both know the gods didn’t grant her a nice personality either.”

Having heard quite enough, Arya began to move down the hallway, anger flushing her face pink. She hadn’t even moved half a step when she felt a hand rest on her shoulder, as if to stop her. Startled, she jumped, and liquid flew out of the goblets, flying all over the walls, falling down to create a puddle on the floor, and dripping down the front of her dress.

With wide eyes, she turned around to face Jon, who had a grave look on his face. The girl’s face immediately softened at the sight of her favourite brother. The boy laid his hand on her right shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid, little sister,” he said.

“But they said-” Arya protested.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon interrupted. “Their father owns the only apothecary around here. What happens if one of us gets sick, and he won’t serve us because you beat up his daughters?”

“I...,” Arya trailed off. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You need to start realising the consequences of your actions, Arya,” he said, giving her a small smile. “Now, go outside and play. I’ll make your excuses to those two idiots.”  
“Thanks, Jon,” Arya said, giving him a smile, before depositing the goblets in the kitchen, and rushing out into the bright sunlight of the afternoon.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Seeing as it was still a little too early to meet up with Gendry, Arya decided to head to the marketplace to see if her mother needed some help carrying the groceries home.   
The marketplace held a delicious aroma of spices and freshly baked goods that made Arya’s mouth water. As she wandered around the stalls, she took her time to view the wares the merchants had out on display, glancing at this and that. She found an abundance of interesting items from ruby encrusted swords to books about daring adventures. The merchant with the swords eventually chased her away to get rid of her. Wistfully, she dreamed of the day when she had a sword of her own, instead of playing around with a wooden stick.

Turning the corner, she found a sizable group of people occupying the market square. Strangely, they all seemed to be huddled around, chattering and looking at some sight Arya couldn’t see.

“What’s going on?” she asked a man standing close to her.

“It’s the prince, girl,” the man replied, giving a strange look to the stain on her dress.

Arya smiled her gratitude before moving on, a slight embarrassment tingeing her cheeks as she glanced at the stain on her dress. She had completely forgotten to change before leaving the house. It was far from unusual for her to wander around town in dirty breeches, but as she was meeting her mother in a stained dress, Arya knew there was a slight possibility that she might be given out to for her dirty appearance. Hopefully, Catelyn would let this one slide.

The crowd seemed very enthusiastic about this prince, and Arya couldn’t for the life of her understand why. Her last encounter with a royal had involved a lot of burping on his part, and the king sending a lot of strange glances in her direction. The young girl was more than keen to avoid a repeat performance.

Slipping through the sea of people, she overheard one man speak. “He’ll make a good king. I can’t wait for the day when he takes the throne.”

“Oh, yes,” the man’s companion replied, “When he discovered that my daughter was ill with the Bloody Flux, he brought medicine to my house straight from the castle Maester’s wares. He’ll be a true ‘King of the People’.”

Continuing her journey through the crowd towards the fish market stalls where her mother surely was, Arya felt the throng of people begin to disperse. People had work and homes to get to, she supposed.

As the amount of people in the square lessened, Arya snuck a glance towards the area where everyone’s eyes were avidly trained. Curiosity had bit her, and she wanted a peek of this prince.

Raising herself up on her tiptoes, she finally saw the face of the ‘Prince of the Seven Kingdoms'.

In a moment, she felt her mouth go dry, her cheeks burn, and her stomach do a flip so hard that she felt it might actually escape.

“Gendry...,” she whispered, unable to move to a muscle. She would recognise that messy head of hair anywhere. It was only when his bright blue eyes, even brighter in the sunlight, locked with her grey ones that Arya snapped out of her reverie and fled.

Gendry called after her, a mixture of panic and desperation in his voice.

His voice echoed in her ears long after she had left his sight.


	6. Chapter 6

Gendry sat with one knee to his chest, his back leaning against the harsh, rough bark of a tree, watching as the river swirled around the rocks as it headed downstream.   
He wondered if she’d turn up today. 

Possibly not. 

_Probably_ not.

It had been days since their little encounter in the marketplace, and the prince had neither seen nor heard from her since. He couldn’t blame her for her disappearing act, but he did still want to be friends. The young prince missed the girl with the flyaway hair and the mischievous grin. Her insatiable competitiveness had kept him on his toes and distracted him from the comings and goings of the castle, and that had meant more to him than he realised until she was gone. 

Sighing, he rose from the ground, and stretched. Gathering the play sticks in one hand, he began to make his way back to the Red Keep, but not before making one last stop along the way.

________________________________________________________________________________________

As Gendry passed the entrance of the shop, he took a short moment to admire the two stone knights that guarded the double doors. The intricate detail of the red armour never failed to amaze him. The shapes of griffons and unicorns on the armour paid such attention to minute details that it took the young prince’s breath away every time he laid eyes on them.

Entering the shop, he was immediately greeted by the owner who bowed low, even though Gendry always wished he didn’t, but the man would not cease no matter how many times he protested that it was not necessary.

“Is it finished?” Gendry asked, after a few minutes of pleasantries and idle chatter.

“Nearly, my prince,” the man replied. “I’m just about to add the last few details, so it should truly be a work of art.”

“Excellent,” Gendry replied. 

At the sound of footsteps, they both turned towards the entrance. A boy around Gendry’s age, with red hair and freckles, entered. 

Giving a slight smile to the owner of the shop, Gendry approached the boy. “Have you had any luck, Mycah?” he asked, hopeful for a positive answer.

“Yes, my prince,” the boy replied. “I ask’d around, and I reckon I found where she lives.”

“Good,” Gendry replied, the boy’s answer forcing his lips into a smile. 

All was not lost.

Mayhaps he might be given a chance to explain after all.

Mayhaps he could make amends.

Mayhaps she would forgive him for not telling her the truth.

Turning back to the blacksmith, Gendry said, “Mycah will deliver the sword when it is ready.”

“Yes, my prince,” Tobho Mott replied.

________________________________________________________________

Roaming down the corridors of the castle, Gendry was once again struck by the sheer number of guests sitting in corners playing cyvasse, downing goblets of wine although it was still afternoon, and chattering loudly to their hearts’ content. Noble men and woman from miles around had begun to descend on the capital in the days after Jon Arryn’s death had been announced. At this moment, some were swapping stories about their favourite memories of him, and others were discussing some of the more controversial decisions of his tenure as Hand of the King. Gendry had watched the influx of people from a castle window with Myrcella and Tommen, and he had to admit he felt surprised by the mass of mourners, but he supposed that when a great man died people felt compelled to pay their respects.

The castle was abuzz with speculation over who would be named the new Hand of the King. Gossip abounded that the king might appoint one of his brothers to the position, or mayhaps a member of his wife’s family, but it was all just idle speculation. Gendry wasn’t so quick to believe such rumours. King Robert had never had much time for his brothers, and he had no time whatsoever for his wife’s family. The young prince was almost certain the king had even less an idea of who to appoint to the post than the courtiers and servants who speculated over his choice from dawn until dusk. 

Just a few days ago his father had admitted that there was not one person left on the earth that he trusted. Gendry wondered how you could give someone that amount of power without having the utmost certainty that they would never in a million years stab you in the back, or make you regret your decision. 

It wasn’t like his father had much interest in running the realm himself. King Robert was contented to plan tourneys, drink wine, and any other merriment he could think of. So, any Hand of the King would ultimately be ruling the realm in his name. 

Just at the second his hand touched the doorknob of his chambers, Gendry’s attention was ripped from his thoughts as the sound of a piercing wail penetrated the corridors. Feeling a sense of foreboding settling in his lower abdomen, Gendry instantly realised that the sound had come from the direction of Myrcella and Tommen’s chambers.  
The boy darted down the corridor towards their chambers, slowing only as he noticed the dark droplets of liquid seeping into the stone floor below him. 

Still shiny and wet, he noticed. 

He arrived outside their chambers in record time, slightly out of breath, and unprepared for the scene before him. Myrcella stood tall facing Joffrey, whose wormy lips were turned into a scathing smirk. The little princess had her left arm spread to the side to protect her younger brother Tommen, who cowered behind her. The little boy’s cheeks were stained with tears, and he was clutching something desperately in his grip, dark patches staining his clothing. 

In the fleeting second Gendry had to process the scene, he found himself amazed by the look of utter determination upon Myrcella’s face. The girl had a backbone of steel underneath the graces of a princess. Tommen would never dare to stand up to Joffrey, but Myrcella would do so in a heartbeat. 

“What’s going on here?” Gendry asked, scanning the three children before him. 

Joffrey’s smirk disappeared the second he heard Gendry’s voice, taking a step backwards. A slight hint of fear shone through in his eyes. The older prince could not mistake the look of relief that flooded his little sister’s face when her blue eyes met his, but Tommen’s sniffles and sobs continued nonetheless.

It took him a moment to register the identity of the bundle in Tommen’s arm.

The kitten.

And it was then that the dark patches made sense.

“What happened?” Gendry asked once more. His voice was quiet but his tone was firm. 

None of the three spoke a word. The youngest prince’s sniffles, as he stroked the ruined fur of the kitten with a bloodied, shaky hand, were the only sounds in the corridor.  
“Myrcella?” Gendry prompted. The older boy figured that Tommen was too upset to speak, and Joffrey wouldn’t tell him just to aggravate him.

“I...the kitten,” she said, glancing at Tommen sadly, “Joffrey...”

“Take Tommen into his chambers,” Gendry ordered. Myrcella did as he asked, guiding her little brother by the elbow with a gentle hand. She hesitated for just a second before closing the door, her eyes downcast.

In a flash, Gendry had Joffrey pinned against the stone wall, his forearm firm but not crushing against the younger boy’s throat. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

The blond-haired prince let out a slight laugh, a smirk once again gracing his haughty features. “Because I wanted to,” he had the audacity to answer. His smirk held for a moment before he began to panic, fearing that Gendry would harm him, no doubt. “Let me go,” he protested. “I’ll tell mother.”

Gendry had never wanted to hurt someone so badly before.

He had never wanted to hurt Joffrey this badly before.

Joffrey’s usual taunts and insults were nothing compared to this.

Distracted as he was, Gendry did not hear the soft footsteps approach. “Ah, the famous Baratheon temper. How _wonderful_ that you’ve inherited it,” he heard someone say. Looking down, he found the face of Tyrion Lannister gazing back up at him, one side of his mouth curved upwards, and a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes. Tyrion looked from one boy to the other. “Let him go,” the dwarf said in a firm voice.

Gendry obeyed reluctantly, releasing his brother and taking a step backwards, slightly disappointed that he didn’t get the chance to take things further.

“Go to your chambers, Joffrey,” Tyrion said, his voice betraying little concern for his nephew’s wellbeing, if he had any at all.

“You cannot order me-“ Joffrey began, anger flaring in his eyes.

“I can and I will. Go to your chambers.” 

“I am a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and I demand your respect,” Joffrey spat.

“The day you start acting worthy of my respect will be the day I give it to you,” Tyrion retorted. Gendry got the sense that Tyrion was going to win this little argument. The shocked look on his brother’s face made him smile just a tiny bit. 

“I won’t forget this,” Joffrey snapped, shooting a look of contempt in Gendry’s direction before disappearing down the corridor. The older prince was not fazed in the slight. Joffrey made him feel a lot of things, but scared was not one of them.

“Promises, promises,” Tyrion muttered to his nephew’s departing back before glancing up at Gendry. “I daresay he deserved it.”

“You have no idea,” Gendry replied. A few seconds later he spoke again. “Every single day I pray to the old gods and the new to find the strength not to bash his head against a stone wall.”

“Even the old gods?” Tyrion asked, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“I figured I’d need the extra help,” Gendry replied honestly.

Tyrion smiled. “Keep praying. Mayhaps something will come of it.” He walked a few steps away before turning back and facing Gendry once more, a more serious expression on his face. “You know, a true king is able to resolve conflicts without resorting to violence much of the time. It’s a trick your father never learned, unfortunately. I hope you will,” he said. 

“I’ll try,” Gendry answered.

The dwarf nodded. “But, nevertheless, I do hope you got a good hit in there for me,” he said, the faint hint of amusement returning to his eyes. “Now, I must not deprive the castle’s guests of my _delightful_ company any longer.”

“I’m sure they’re mourning your absence.” 

Tyrion let out a laugh. “We haven’t had much of a chance to speak since I arrived. We must rectify that soon.”

“I’d like that,” Gendry said, and he wholeheartedly meant it.

Nodding again, Tyrion left, whistling a merry tune as he went.

_________________________________________________________________________

Streaks of sunlight shone through the green leaves of the trees as Gendry stood with Myrcella and Tommen in front of the small hole he had just dug. 

Tommen stepped forward, his eyes shining with fresh tears, and knelt down to place his engraved toy box, which had served as a makeshift coffin, into the small hole with quivering hands and covered the box with the unearthed soil.

When he returned to Gendry’s left side, the older boy placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Joffrey’s an abomination,” Myrcella said quietly from his other side, her eyes fixed on the sight before them.

“That’s a big word for a little princess,” Gendry replied, hoping that by not labelling Joffrey as that, that it wouldn’t be true, but also because he didn’t want Myrcella to see the badness in the world. 

He didn’t want Myrcella to see the badness in their family, but deep down he knew she already did.

Myrcella raised her eyes to his. “They don’t see it, but we do.” 

Gendry knew what she meant, though he knew she was wrong. 

They saw it, but they just did nothing.

His father and Cersei ignored Joffrey’s behaviour. 

They let him do whatever he liked because they didn’t want to admit the truth.

The fair haired princess stepped forward and laid a bunch of crimson flowers, which she had tied with a golden ribbon, upon the raised mound of earth before taking Tommen’s hand and leading him back to the castle.

Gendry followed behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Arya sat cross-legged on the roof of the tavern, tracing patterns in the dirt around her as she listened idly to the banter of the many customers below. The men here told vivacious stories about daring swordfights, and boisterously sang songs about legendary men and woman from years gone by. It was here, on a cool evening many moons ago, that Arya and Bran had sat and listened in wide-eyed amazement to the story of Davos Seaworth, The Onion Knight. Although, the girl had to admit that she now knew more information about the whores in Chataya’s Brothel than she could truthfully say she was comfortable with, this was still one of her favourite places in King’s Landing. As she sat there on the dusty, old rooftop listening to heroic tales, Arya imagined the adventures she would one day have and the places to which she would one day go.

Nothing felt better today than dreaming of a more exciting, more adventure-filled tomorrow.

The sky was turning to an orange dusk, and the heat of the day had transformed into a slight chill when a conversation happening immediately below her caught Arya’s full attention. Two low voices flew up the crack beside her to meet her ears, and the young girl paused her mindless doodling to stop and listen, tipping her head slightly towards the break in the roof.

“The realm will have a full out war on its hands before long, you mark my words.” The first voice was gruff and hard, a voice that held a lifetime of experience in its depths. From his tone, it seemed to Arya that he had already resigned himself to this fate, that war was now a certainty in his eyes and not just a possibility.

“I do not know about that,” the other man replied, “but one thing is certain. They have grossly underestimated the memory of the North.” 

“The North remembers,” the first speaker murmured in agreement, “and it will _never_ forget.” A shiver swept down Arya’s spine at his words, and she moved closer to the crack, craning her neck from side to side to get a better view of the speakers.

A younger man spoke for this first time, his voice a little shaky as if the conversation of the older men had unnerved him somewhat. Arya knew then that he was what her mother would call a ‘sweet summer child’, a child who had never known the horror of war or the devastation of Winter, not unlike Arya herself. “Is war the only option?” he asked.

Moving her head closer to the break in the roof, Arya could finally make out the tops of the speakers’ heads. The man with the greying hair let out a mirthless chuckle before answering. “The stag of House Baratheon is being pinned at the throat by a Lannister lion. Until that changes, the kingdom is only waiting for war to strike.”

For a few moments the three were silent, digesting the older man’s words and letting the reality of what they meant creep into their veins. War was coming, and Arya could feel her stomach twist at the thought. 

“Arya!” 

Whipping her head around, Arya saw her younger brother dashing towards her across the rooftops, carrying a parcel in his hands.

“What is this?” she asked as he came to an abrupt stop and laid the parcel in her lap before kneeling down opposite her, panting slightly.

Bran took a moment to regain his breath before replying, rubbing one hand across his pink cheeks. “It’s for you,” he answered. “A boy named Mycah delivered it today.”

“I do not know a boy named Mycah,” Arya said in confusion. Frowning, she tried to think of who he could be. Unless he was from that group of boys she had unsuccessfully tried to duel the other day and this was some kind of revenge for pushing one of them into the mud, then she had absolutely no idea who it could be from. Since she had found out the truth about Gendry, she had been on the lookout for new duelling partners, but there had been no willing takers thus far and these boys had just been complete arses.

Eyeing the package warily, she began to tear it open as Bran looked on, a look of ready anticipation on his face. 

The bright shards of sunlight that still pierced the evening sky caught the blade immediately, and Arya hurried to unwrap the slender sword, letting the paper fall to the wayside. A slight daze came over her as she held the light blade in her hand, running her finger in slow, almost dreamlike movements from base to tip. It took a few moments for Arya to snap out of her trance, and her grey eyes immediately shot up to take in Bran’s stunned face. Neither of them had ever held a real sword in their lives, never mind one so exquisitely made. It was, without a doubt, made by one of the finest Blacksmiths in the city, mayhaps in all of Westeros. 

Glancing back downwards, Arya noticed a letter in the wreckage of gift-wrap. Laying the sword down gently, the girl read the note, biting her lip as she did so.

“Who is it from?” Bran asked, his voice still saturated with amazement and a tiny hint of envy.

“A friend,” Arya answered.

“I wish I had friends like yours,” was all Bran managed to say. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Before daylight had streamed through the windows the next morning, Arya had recovered her blade from its hiding place and was fighting imaginary duels around her chamber. By breakfast time she had already defeated two dragons and had won half a dozen tourneys. She had to admit, she was quite proud of her fictional achievements.

Exhausted, she flopped down on the featherbed, her fingers never leaving the jewel encrusted blade. As her strength returned, Arya felt an uneasy feeling taking up residence in her stomach. It felt as if a mound of stones had settled in the bottom of her abdomen, and Arya knew what that feeling meant. She would have to give the sword back. As much as she would have liked to keep it, her parents would not approve of her accepting a gift of this magnitude, even if it was from a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Her parents had always warned her not to accept a gift that she had no way of repaying.

A knock sounded on her wooden door, and Arya hurried to bury the swords beneath her bedclothes. 

Unfortunately, she did not manage to succeed before the door swung open and she was facing her brother, Jon, with wide eyes.

Jon frowned slightly when he saw the sword before turning and sliding the door closed with a sharp click. He moved closer to Arya and wordlessly held out his hand for the blade. After inspecting it for a couple of minutes, twirling it around in his strong hands, he asked, “So, did you buy it or acquire it?”

“I did not _steal_ it,” Arya protested. “It was a gift.”

“From who?” Her brother raised an eyebrow, and Arya could not blame him. The chances of finding someone in this part of the city who was rich enough to gift a fine sword to a young girl were too slim to even be considered. She knew there was no sense lying. Jon knew her better than anyone on Earth, and he would certainly have known if she were fibbing in one heartbeat or less. 

“It was from Gendry.” 

Confusion erupted on Jon’s face competing with curiosity for dominance over his features. He handed her back the blade, moving to sit beside her on the edge of the featherbed, and Arya waited until he was comfortable before telling him the entire story, about how Gendry was a prince and also about how he had kept the truth from her.

“He’s a liar,” she said simply to end the tale.

Jon seemed to consider this for a moment before raising his grey eyes to her matching ones. “Why do you think he did not tell you that he was a prince?”

Arya shrugged. “Mayhaps because he is stupid.”

Smiling, Jon shook his head. “That’s not it.”

“Mayhaps because he is an _idiot_ prince who enjoys playing games with people,” the young girl offered. She had not really thought about why Gendry would lie or rather omit the truth, just that he had. Was that not enough?

“That’s not it either,” Jon said, “Come on, little sister, you can do much better than that.”

Arya kept quiet for a few minutes, lost in thought. She wondered why a prince, who was surely surrounded by adoring Lords and Ladies every single day of his life, would feel the need to escape from it all. She wondered why a prince, who surely had access to the best Swordmasters, would prefer to practice duelling with a towngirl like herself over the sons of noble families. She wondered why a prince, who had surely been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, would spend so much time outside his castle walls.

And then she finally understood.

Inside the castle walls, he was Prince Gendry, the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, a boy with the weight of a dynasty on his shoulders, but while he roamed the streets of King’s Landing, he was just Gendry, and he could be who he chose to be, at least for a time.

Arya did not envy him his double life in the slightest.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As she entered the clearing through the path by the old, oak trees, Arya spotted the young boy sitting and waiting, with the playsticks by his side. Absently, she wondered if he had been coming here every day since that incident at the marketplace. She supposed he had. Startled slightly by the sound, the prince turned his gaze towards her, and Arya did not miss the glimmer of hope in his eyes, although it was quickly masked.

The girl sat down beside him, drawing her knees up to her chest and waited for him to speak.

“Why did you come?” he asked.

Arya glanced up at him, momentarily taken aback by his bright, blue eyes. She had not accurately remembered what a vibrant shade of blue they were. “The same reason you did,” she answered lightly. 

_I want to still be friends._

The corners of Gendry’s mouth turned upwards, mirroring Arya’s own expression. It was a couple of moments before she spoke again. “I cannot accept the sword, you know,” she said. “You will have to take it back.” Even as she said the words, she gripped the handle of the sword a little tighter, unwilling to let it go even though she knew she had to.

“It was not made for someone of my stature,” the boy was quick to reply. “If you do not accept it, then it will be useless.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “You could not find anyone else of my stature to give it to?”

“Not many knights are ten year old girls, I’m afraid,” he said with a light chuckle.

“I have no way to repay you,” Arya said practically. 

“The sword is yours if you agree to keep sparring with me. As you have so _kindly_ demonstrated on many occasions, I could certainly use the practice.”

“If you insist, My Prince,” she said with an awfully executed curtsey from her sitting position. Sansa would have been horrified.

“Why is it when you say that it sounds like an insult?” His tone was light and teasing.

Arya merely shrugged before bursting into laughter. “Mayhaps because it is supposed to,” she said when she had fully recovered her senses. She had forgotten how much she had missed talking, japing and sparring with the young boy before her. She had missed her friend.

“I’d forgotten how utterly charming you are,” Gendry said with a roll of his eyes.

Contented, the two children lay back, basking in the afternoon sunlight that flooded through the trees.

It took a few minutes for Arya to realise that a wide smile had crept up on her face.


	8. Chapter 8

The chatter of the numerous lords and ladies penetrated the silence of the night, and the loud laughter echoed off the stone walls of the hall. Most of the noblemen and women, who had come to pay their respects to the late Jon Arryn, had left for home and duty in the previous days, but quite a sizeable crowd still remained. A large feast, complete with dancing and entertainment, had taken place every day for the last two weeks, and Gendry had to admit that Court had not been this much fun in quite some time. 

Now that his friendship with Arya was repaired, the young boy finally had the inclination to join in on the merriment. A small smile ghosted his lips when he thought of his friend. He had missed her quiet terribly. The world had been too quiet, and he had had far too few bruises to contend with. The thought of her annoyed expression when he had beaten her in sparring earlier that day forced his lips into a smile.

Little by little, the crowd had decreased in numbers over the course of the night. Myrcella and Tommen had left for bed long ago, tiredness clouding their eyes. His younger brother and sister were not used to so much excitement and entertainment. Gendry was glad of this distraction for poor Tommen, but he noticed that while the sadness in his green eyes disappeared for moments at a time; it always came rushing back with a vengeance eventually. Cersei, having seen their heavy eyes- Tommen had narrowly escaped face-planting into his dessert as further warning to his tiredness- had ordered them to bed when the meal had finished and followed them herself shortly thereafter. His father had not even lasted the meal, and Joffrey had disappeared soon after as well, leaving Gendry as the only remaining member of the royal family in the hall.

The prince sat at one of the oak tables, which was occupied by a number of other young men, listening to their japes and anecdotes. The atmosphere was light, and the lively talk of his companions put a smile on his face. The men were well and truly in their cups at this stage, and the stories were becoming more and more scandalous and outrageous with each passing second. At this point of the evening, Gendry could not even tell if they were speaking the truth or not.

“They say King Robert is likely to appoint Lord Mace Tyrell as Hand of the King,” one man commented on a more serious note as he took a swig from his skin of sourwine.   
“I believe it to be true,” Gendry replied. His father had not spoken to him directly about the matter, but the castle whispers seldom lied, and Lord Tyrell seemed like a logical person for the position. 

“Speaking of our beloved king, where is he this evening?” Lord Beric Dondarrion asked. 

“I believe the whores in Chataya’s brothel have the pleasure of his company,” Gendry’s Uncle Renly chimed in, his tone light and playful. “Did I tell you Robert tried to drag me to a brothel once?” he added in a wry, low whisper to his nephew. “I’m not sure either of us has ever recovered.” 

The prince could not help but laugh, only stopping when he made accidental eye-contact with the hazel eyes of Margaery Tyrell. The girl was dancing gracefully with Lancel Lannister, but the prince did not miss how her eyes flickered often in his direction.

“She’s a pretty girl,” Renly said, following his gaze. “You could do a lot worse as a wife and as a queen. Ser Loras speaks quite highly of her.”

Gendry stayed silent. In truth, he did not know how to reply. He had known Margaery Tyrell for what seemed like his entire life as she had often travelled with her father to King’s Landing, and he had visited Highgarden once or twice for tourneys, but even then he could not imagine being married to her. Margaery seemed to be constantly surrounded by an entourage of cousins and other friends, and, although, she was always polite and charming in the few brief conversations they had had, Gendry sometimes got the oddest feeling that it was all a facade. The prince supposed being married to her in the future was probably an inevitability, especially now her father was going to appointed Hand of the King, but it was an inevitability that he did not care to think about. 

“At least she has a more pleasing nature than her brother,” Renly continued, giving a slight nod towards a young man sitting alone a few tables away, his cane resting against his lap. Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, was usually quite a good-humoured addition to any feast, but tonight he had politely refused Gendry’s invitation to sit with him and the other young men, and he was doing absolutely nothing to hide the look of melancholy that had taken up residence on this face. “He looks like he has been sucking on a sour lemon all evening. Someone give the poor man a peach.”

“Rumour has it that he has a lady love in town,” Ser Alyn Estermont interjected, a slight knowing smirk gracing his features.

Renly did not say anything in response, but his expression said it all. Willas could romance the girl all he wanted, but he would never in a million years be allowed to marry her. From the slight flash of pain that passed through Renly’s bright blue eyes before he schooled his expression into something more guarded, Gendry suspected that it was a truth he knew all too well.

The young prince hoped it was a truth he would never have to find out for himself.

____________________

When the servant delivered the message that his father and Queen Cersei wished to speak with him, Gendry felt an immediate sense of dread settle in the pit of his stomach. It was no secret that the king and queen bore no love for each other whatsoever, and seemed to be physically repulsed by spending too much time in the other’s company, so if they were willingly in the same room together then it must be a serious situation. Combining that knowledge with the fact that Joffrey had been absent for their lessons that morning, and Gendry was certain he knew what incident they wanted to discuss. Gritting his teeth, the prince walked down the hall to meet them. 

In the hallway, he found Myrcella. The princess’s fists were clenched by her sides - the fierceness of her stance reminding him of Arya - which contrasted greatly with the apology that swelled in her green eyes as they met his. “I tried to tell them-,” she said.

“I know,” Gendry replied, and he didn’t doubt for a second that she actually had. There were a few things Myrcella was scared of, but Joffrey was not one of them. In fact, she was one of the few people brave enough to openly acknowledge what Joffrey was really like.

“Why don’t they ever listen?” she asked, a tinge of sadness mixed in with the anger of her tone.

Gendry sincerely wished he had an answer for her.

____________________

As he stepped inside the room, Gendry was struck by the distinctly chilly atmosphere. King Robert Baratheon sat behind the hand-carved oak table, which faced the doorway, his expression grim. Two members of the Kingsguard stood behind him, close to the wall, one to his left and one to his right, Barristan Selmy standing tall and proud. His father raised bloodshot eyes to focus on Gendry the moment the prince entered the room, and Gendry could tell just by looking at him that he was much too hungover to handle this situation. Gendry did not doubt that all his father wanted to do was to retire back to bed until at least the late afternoon. 

Prince Joffrey sat to the right of the king, and the golden-haired boy smirked at Gendry when their eyes met. The black-haired boy felt a surge of anger rush through him, but he bit his tongue to keep himself from lashing out at his younger brother. He hated being annoyed with Joffrey, but having Joffrey _know_ that he had gotten to him was far worse.

Finally, his eyes settled on Cersei who was standing behind Joffrey, her slender hand resting on his shoulder. The queen shifted uncomfortably under the heat of his gaze, and Gendry did not fail to notice the slight stiffening of her back as she pretended not to care. 

There was silence for a few moments before the king spoke, “I trust you know why you’ve been summoned here today. Joffrey tells me that you two got in some kind of fight.”

“He attacked me,” Joffrey corrected, his green eyes gleaming with arrogance. 

Gendry rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I was not provoked,” he retorted. “Did he tell you he killed Tommen’s kitten?”

The older prince saw Cersei’s eyes flicker for just a second. _You know he did it just as much as I do,_ Gendry thought, and he wished he could go up to her and shake some sense into her. Sometimes Gendry thought that Joffrey’s character was being wounded by a mother whose weapon was indulgence, and a father whose apathy was a curse. Both of Joffrey’s parents chose to bury their heads in the sand rather than to deal with his behaviour and that fact almost made Gendry feel sorry for his younger brother.

“You have no proof that he did any such thing,” Cersei answered flatly, “and I will not hear any other false accusations against my son.”

Robert pinched his nose between his thumb and his forefinger, before focusing his bright blue eyes again at his oldest son. “You will apologise to your brother, and we will be done with it,” he ordered.

When Gendry was a child, people used to tell him stories of the brave and _good_ man his father had been. They told him how he had risen up in revolt against the Mad King Aerys and rid the world of his evilness, but this was not the man from those tales. 

This man was a shadow of the man they had described. 

The Robert Baratheon from those stories and songs, the brave and noble warrior, would never have sat back and let Joffrey act like this. And Gendry found himself longing for the father he could have had rather than the apathetic man before him, the man who preferred wallowing in his own memories of the past over being a good father in the present.

“Why in Seven Hells am I supposed to be sorry, when he so obviously is _not_?"

“You will do as I say, boy,” the king spat. 

“Is this really your idea of parenting?” Gendry asked, letting out a mirthless chuckle before continuing, “You are as _miserable_ a father as you are a king.” 

“Dare not speak like that in front of me again,” the king said, rising to his feet and knocking over his cup of wine as he went, “Or I promise to beat you bloody.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Gendry countered, his blood boiling even as the king’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Cersei’s mouth twisted in distaste. “You cannot turn your head the other way for his entire life. He is going to end up a monster, and _you_ will be the ones to blame.”

“That is _enough_!” King Robert snapped. “Go to your chambers, and don’t let me see you for the rest of the day, or I’ll make good on that promise.”

“Gladly,” Gendry said. As he turned to leave, he caught a glance of Joffrey’s smirk out of the corner of his eye, and it made Gendry’s anger burn brighter and fiercer.

The young prince swore he would never let Joffrey hurt Myrcella or Tommen again.

____________________

It was Tyrion who found him hours later as he sat on the edge of Traitor’s Walk, dangling his feet off the bridge.

The dwarf sat down beside him, and Gendry felt immensely grateful for his company, his thoughts having provided little comfort to him. When Tyrion offered the young prince a skin of sourwine, the black-haired boy immediately shook his head, but Tyrion persevered, “One sip of wine won’t turn you into him,” he assured, “Besides you certainly look like you could use some.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, raising the skin to his lips. The liquid hit the back of his throat with a powerful force, making the young prince cough slightly, and it left a tangy taste behind in his mouth, but Gendry found he was grateful for the way it made his thoughts blur after a few mouthfuls. Mayhaps, this is why his father drank so much; to forget. In his slight haze, Gendry thought mayhaps that wasn’t such a bad reason.

The prince did not know how long they sat there in silence, and despite the alcohol running through his veins, there was one question that plagued his mind. It was common knowledge that Tyrion Lannister had a strained relationship with his father, even though that was putting it mildly, so Tyrion was the only one he trusted with it.

“Tyrion?” he asked.

“Yes?”

Gendry swallowed thickly, “How do we forgive our fathers?”

“For which sin?” The dwarf’s short laugh was devoid of all humour. 

The prince considered this for a moment before answering. “For not being the people we wish they were,” he said finally, slightly hesitant in his words.

Tyrion’s only reply was a loaded sigh which held a lifetime of feelings in its midst. 

The silence of the night brought no answer with it either, and Gendry thought that mayhaps there wasn’t an answer to be found.


	9. Chapter 9

As she crawled through the rather cramped passageway, Arya found that she could not quell the feeling of excitement that had flared up in her abdomen. The anticipation grew with each inch she crawled, until it felt as if her stomach would burst at any second. When the dim light at the end of the passageway came into view in front of her companion, Arya felt her anticipation turn into something akin to hunger.

Gendry opened the entrance and darted his eyes from left to right, listening closely for any sign of movement from the outside. After a few moments, he apparently decided the coast was clear as he slid out of the hidden passageway, beckoning for Arya to follow behind.

She did, landing with a light thump, before proceeding to brush some of the dust off her extremely dirty britches. Sansa would be positively horrified that not only did Arya get to visit the Red Keep before her, but she was doing so in dirty, tattered clothing. Arya thought on this for a moment before determining that she did not care in the slightest. She was not here to converse with the ladies of Court, but for another reason entirely, one that she was certain her older sister would not approve of anyhow. Glancing up and down the hallway- which was quite dark and only lit with infrequent torches- Arya felt the hunger return. Gendry had promised her dragon skulls, and dragon skulls were all she wanted to see here. “Where are they?” she asked, not wanting to wait a moment longer.

“You know you could try and control your excitement just a little,” Gendry said, rolling his eyes even though the smile never left his lips.

Arya shrugged, “I see no need to.”

“You hit me twice on the way over here,” he reminded her.

“You were moving too slowly,” she argued, a slight smile gracing her own lips. She wasn’t ashamed of her excitement. In years to come, Arya knew that she would go on a million adventures - each one more daring than the last- and see a great many wonderful things, but this was her first time seeing anything as amazing as a dragon skull, and she intended to savour it for all it was worth. Besides, she knew Gendry was just teasing her; he had an extremely annoying habit of doing that.

“My Maester says patience is a virtue,” he said, amusement making his bright blue eyes twinkle in the torchlight. It reminded her of the look Jon got in his eyes when he mussed her tangled head of hair and called her ‘little sister’, and the memory made her smile grow wider.

“Your Maester is an idiot,” she replied. “Now, where are they?”

Gendry chuckled lightly. “This way,” he said. As she followed him down the hall, Arya thought that being friends with a prince certainly had its advantages.

The sight of the first skull took Arya’s breath clean away, and made her stop in her tracks. Even though she had known what she was about to see, nothing could have prepared her for the magnitude of encountering her first dragon skull. It stood tall, more than twice as tall as she could ever hope to be, and she was struck by the black colour of the bones, not having expected that at all. The blackness of the bones blended in with the darkness shrouding the hallway, and light only permeating through the cracks of the skull in a couple of places, which Arya thought made it look all the more magnificent.

“That one is Balerion,” Gendry’s voice said from behind her. Turning her head towards him, Arya saw that he was leaning against the gigantic tooth of another of the dragons, a skull that seemed a little smaller than the one that currently held both her attention and amazement. “He was the dragon that Aegon the Conqueror rode into battle. At the ‘Field of Fire’, Balerion, along with Vhagar and Meraxes, took to the sky together and defeated an army five times the size of the Targaryen troops.”

“You sound as if you admire them,” Arya commented, a look of curiosity overcoming her features as she raised her grey eyes to meet his blue ones. King Robert’s excessive hatred of House Targaryen was common knowledge. Indeed, during her eavesdropping at the tavern a few days ago, she had learned that the king had sent an assassin to kill the last Targaryens, so it struck her as odd that the same hatred was not ingrained in Gendry.

He chuckled for a moment before replying, “A dragon is much more impressive than a stag, I can tell you that much.”

Arya had no sooner opened her mouth to reply when she heard the low sound of footsteps coming towards them. Gendry indicated for her to hide, and she did so, crouching inside the jaw of Balerion and pausing for a second to stroke the cold, dark bone of his skeleton.

The man who approached brought a foul smell with him. His black beard was thick and coarse, and Arya could see, even in the dim lighting, that it was matted with dirt. She could also see that he was slightly stooped as he walked, as if an old shoulder injury was bothering him. He certainly looked as out of place in a castle as Arya herself did.

“Who goes there?” Gendry called as the man came closer.

“My name is Yoren,” the man said. His voice was as rough as his appearance, and Arya thought it seemed a little familiar, though she was certain she had never seen this man before in her life. Glancing over him again, Arya was struck by the horrific, old burn marks plaguing one of his hands.

“You’re the recruiter for the Night’s Watch,” Gendry said. “I’ve seen you before.”

“And you are the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms,” Yoren said, looking disdainfully at Gendry, almost as if he hated him. Fear caught in Arya’s chest as his eyes moved towards the skull of Balerion. “I can see you there, you know.”

Knowing she had been found, Arya moved from her hiding place to stand next to her friend, and she fervently hoped that she would not be in trouble. “What happened to your hand?” she asked, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she even knew what she was saying.

Yoren’s eyes studied her, hardening as she asked her question. “The Great Fire of Winterfell,” he replied without skipping a beat, and Arya sensed rather than saw Gendry tense beside her. Frowning, she tried to remember if she had ever heard of such an incident. Her father was from the North, but he seldom spoke of his life there, and her mother had warned her and her siblings not to push the subject with him. She looked up at the man again, but his eyes were focused on Gendry. “But your father would know all about that, wouldn’t he, my prince?”

Looking at her friend, Arya could see the way his jaw clenched at the thinly veiled accusation. “My father played no part in what happened at Winterfell,” Gendry said evenly, “and you should not speak of him that way. He is your king.”

The laugh that escaped Yoren’s lips was completely without humour. “A king is just a man and sometimes a poor man at that, and a king without honour is no king at all.” Gendry opened his mouth to protest, but Yoren continued, not leaving him room to speak. “What he did to House Stark was a travesty, and while a dead man may have no use for his reputation, Lord Eddard Stark did not deserve history being rewritten to brand him a traitor.”

“My father did not do anything,” Gendry protested, although there was a slight reluctance to his tone that confused Arya. It was almost like he did not believe the words he spoke. There was a war going on in his eyes, a war between what he wanted to believe and what was actually true. She was going to tell Yoren to stop, but Gendry gave a slight shake of his head to tell her not to get involved.

“Exactly!” Yoren said. “He did _nothing_. A good and honourable man died, and he sat back and watched. Our _beloved_ king allied himself with the Lannisters, let cruelty reign over the North, and the realm has paid the price for it every day since.”

“This has nothing to do with the Lannisters-“ Gendry began, but the faltering of his words told Arya all she needed to here.

“This has _everything_ to do with the Lannisters,” Yoren spat, and the look in his eyes scared Arya. “Whoever controls the gold controls the realm, and since the Lannisters shit gold, we are all their humble servants.”

Arya had heard more than enough. “Stop it!” she said. “None of this is Gendry’s fault, and I think it is about time you left.”

Yoren blinked at her as if he had forgotten that she existed before uttering one last thing, “You know, someone once told me that the wolves will come again. You should prepare yourself for that day, my prince.” He gave a mock bow before continuing on his way, and Arya gave a disgusted look to his back.

“Who are the Wardens of the North?” she asked her friend once Yoren was out of view.

“House Bolton,” Gendry replied.

“Are they as cruel as he said?”

“They are as cruel as men can be,” was the only answer she received.

_____________________________

 

Arya’s catapult had just defeated Robb’s dragon. Although, she strongly suspected that her brother was letting her win, Arya was quite proud that she was learning the rules of the game so easily, being as they were quite complicated. Robb had been taught Cyvasse from a sailor from Volantis years earlier, and her parents had only bought him a Cyvasse board for his last nameday, but since then he had been teaching all his siblings to play. Jon, Bran, and Arya quite liked the game, but Sansa preferred to do needlework or read a book in the evenings, and Rickon’s impatience and temper had made his first and only attempt a disaster. Her mother had thought it best if he did not play any more board games until he was a little bit older, and Arya was quick to agree in that regard, having narrowly escaped having her head walloped by Rickon’s flying king.

Robb was just about to capture one of her elephants when the sound of voices outside reached their ears. Her mother and father had taken Bran and Rickon for a walk only a little while earlier, with Jon having gone to meet a friend, and Sansa having disappeared entirely after dinner. The voices grew louder and louder the nearer they got to the house, and, frowning, Robb rose from his seat to go investigate. Arya followed closely behind.

Outside, they found Sansa and Jon, who were clearly in the middle of a heated argument and were not distracted by their presence in the slightest.

“You will not _ruin_ this for me,” Sansa said. Fresh tears welled in her eyes as she said the words. There was anger in her tone, and Arya thought she detected a hint of pleading in her voice as well.

“If you think the heir to Highgarden is going to marry a commoner from King’s Landing, you are beyond delusional,” Jon’s words may have been a little harsh, but his tone was compassionate, as it always was towards his siblings. It was the patient voice he used when he was trying to teach Bran how to shoot an arrow, or trying to explain something difficult to Rickon. With a start, Arya realised that they must be discussing the young man she had seen giving Sansa a rose in the marketplace. If she remembered correctly, Highgarden was the seat of House Tyrell, and if that was so, Jon’s words held a lot of truth in them. The nobility of Westeros rarely strayed outside their own class for marriage. This Tyrell boy would surely marry a lady, as Arya was certain Gendry would when the time came. A strange twinge curled in her abdomen at the thought, but it was gone after a couple of seconds, so she did not dwell on it.

“What is going on here?” Robb asked, his voice as grave as his expression.

With wide eyes, Sansa glanced at them before brushing past Arya and leaving her three confused siblings behind in her wake. After a pause, Jon answered Robb’s question, “She had been carrying on a romance with Willas Tyrell, the heir of Highgarden and insists that he intends to marry her.”

Robb shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll talk to her,” he said before following their sister inside. Arya knew that Sansa would pay heed to Robb’s words before she would Arya’s or Jon’s, so she left him to it.

When they were left alone, Jon sighed before asking, “You don’t harbour any ambitions about marrying your friend, the prince, do you?” His words were a jape, but there was a slight fear hidden deep inside his grey eyes.

“I do not wish to marry anyone,” Arya replied scornfully, and it was true. She wanted adventures more than she wanted anything else in the world, and she could not see herself having the kind of life she wanted if she married _anyone_ , least of all a prince.

“Good,” Jon replied, mussing her hair before drawing her into a hug.

Smiling, Arya watched as he headed inside before a slight noise from down the street grabbed her attention. A dirty, little boy sat there, the same little boy that she had seen outside her house on and off for over two moons now. He always gave her an uneasy feeling, and it seemed to Arya that he was watching the house, although she knew that was a ridiculous thought. Bran had told her as much when she had mentioned it to him. When the boy saw her looking at him, he scrambled to get up and ran down the street without as much as a backward glance.

Shaking the silly thoughts from her mind, Arya headed back inside.


	10. Chapter 10

The cool breeze of evening had broken the seemingly endless heat of the day hours before, and as the sun retreated and darkness formed a cloud over the city; Gendry watched as Willas Tyrell limped towards his awaiting carriage. A sombre expression had taken up a permanent residence on his face since the feast days earlier, but now, in addition, his eyes had a haunted look to them, a look filled with so much hurt it that it worried Gendry. It was almost like, if Willas let himself, he would be swallowed up by the ferocity of his hurt. 

The Keep was abuzz with gossip of unrest in the Tyrell family, and there were fresh rumours today of servants and courtiers overhearing quarrels in the Tower of the Hand. Connecting these incidents with the rumours of Willas’s romance with a commoner was child’s play, and now the castle whispers were quick to suggest that Willas already fancied himself half in love with the girl and had gone so far as to propose marriage to her. Although, Gendry usually took such idle gossip with a pinch of salt, it appeared that the whispers had some solid grounding in this regard, considering the behaviour of Willas for the past few days and the stern look on Lord Mace Tyrell’s face as he watched his son’s departure from a window above them. It would come as no surprise to Gendry to discover that this sudden departure from the Red Keep was an attempt by House Tyrell to whisk him away to Highgarden under the cover of night, far away from the rumours of King’s Landing and far away from this girl he had found himself in love with.

Despite the fact that he and Willas were not exceptionally close, certainly not close enough to discuss personal matters; Gendry had felt compelled to say goodbye when he had spotted the carriage waiting outside. He did not know what to say to make him feel better- or if anything would- so they just settled for brief banter spoken in stilted sentences. Nevertheless, the tiny smile Willas gave him after he had helped him into the carriage made Gendry believe that he appreciated the effort anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” Gendry said as he stepped back from the carriage. 

Willas just nodded, the pain in his eyes almost palpable, before the carriage set off on the road towards Highgarden and a fresh wave of pity passed over Gendry as he watched the carriage depart, leaving him alone in the courtyard.

__________________

The fire crackled loudly as Tyrion poured two cups of wine. Handing one to Gendry, he took the seat opposite him and swirled his wine slowly around his cup as he listened to Gendry’s tale of Willas Tyrell’s departure. He was unusually quiet as he took in Gendry’s words, not uttering a single syllable until Gendry had finished recanting his tale, and his eyes stayed firmly trained on the dark liquid occupying his cup the entire time. “It’s probably for the best,” he said solemnly before draining his cup in one gulp and rising to fill it again.

Basking in the warm glow of the fire, Gendry nodded before taking a sip of the sour liquid, and decided to ask the question that had been plaguing his mind since that afternoon in the dungeons with Arya. “Was my father responsible for what happened at Winterfell?”

Tyrion hesitated for a second before answering, “That would depend on who you are asking.”

“I’m asking _you_ ,” Gendry answered.

The conversation grew quiet for a moment, and the air felt heavy with the weight of the unspoken words hanging between them. Tyrion sighed before he spoke, “It would depend on your perspective. Some merely blame the Boltons for instigating a rebellion against their ruling House, some blame the people who supplied the gold to fund their army, some say that if you cannot defend a seat then you do not deserve to sit on it, and, yes, some blame the king.”

Even though Tyrion had not explicitly stated that House Lannister had helped to fund the Bolton Rebellion in the North, Gendry assumed that they had played a part due to Yoren’s words in the dungeons days earlier. His rage towards House Lannister seemed as strong and as fierce as his rage towards the king, and Gendry was certain it would not be as strong if the Lannisters were innocent onlookers during the fall of House Stark. He did not for a second doubt that Tywin Lannister had supplied the gold for such a cause. There were not many men Gendry professed to hate in the Seven Kingdoms, but Tywin Lannister was surely one of them, and he had no doubt that the feeling was mutual. One thing he did not understand, however, was why it would be his father’s fault if he had neither supplied the gold or the soldiers for the rebellion. “Why?” he asked. It did not matter that his question was vague. He knew Tyrion would know that it was his father, and not the other anonymous villains in this tale, that he would want to focus on.

“A king need only issue a command and his subjects will obey, but our _beloved_ king has a fiery temper, and when it is roused, I believe he would condone almost anything.” He took a sip of his wine. “Indeed, he already has,” he added as an afterthought.

“So it was his fault?” Gendry asked.

Picking up on the disappointment inherent in his tone, Tyrion continued, “Gendry, you still see your father through the eyes of a child and that is a dangerous thing.”

“I know he’s not perfect,” Gendry dismissed. He did know that. His father had been letting him down for his entire life. Calling him ‘perfect’ was laughable. 

“Do you?” Tyrion asked gently. “Broken men don’t make the best kings. They don’t make the best _fathers_ either, and you’ve been growing up in his shadow your entire life. You’ve also been defending him, imagining him to be a better man, and denying the reality of his character since the day you were born.”

Gendry didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. Tyrion’s words had cut straight to the bone. Although, he knew that he would have to reconcile himself to the reality of the father he _had_ and forget the imaginings of the father he _could_ have had, he found that incredibly hard to do.

“Did you know your father and Lord Eddard Stark were fostered together at the Eyrie?” Tyrion asked as he cradled his cup of wine between his hands. 

“What?” 

“By some accounts, they were raised as brothers and acted accordingly,” Tyrion murmured, his eyes trained on Gendry. 

This revelation made Gendry start. If this was true, then was the fact that his father did not come to the aid of House Stark part of a personal vendetta against Lord Eddard Stark? What reason would he have not to come to the aid of a friend? Much less a friend he viewed as a brother? What had come to pass to break the bonds of friendship between them? Utterly confused, Gendry furrowed his brow. Information about House Stark was sparse. All he knew was that Lyanna Stark had been betrothed to his father before she had run away- dishonouring her betrothal- with the Dragon Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. His Maesters told him that House Stark, led by Lord Eddard Stark, had been vehement in their lie that she had been kidnapped, but that had later been proven false. Gendry struggled to think of what else he knew about the former Wardens of the North, but the more he thought about it, the more questions rose to his mind about them. More often than not all that was said about them was that Lord Eddard Stark was a traitor and that Lyanna Stark was a Targaryen whore. “There are a great many things I do not understand,” he said.

“That is because you do not go out and seek the answers for yourself. You will not be spoon-fed the truth, especially not in your position. People will tell you what they _want_ you to know and the only way you are going to discover the truth is if you go out and find it for yourself,” he said. Tyrion’s tone was serious and Gendry could see the sense in his words. As king, he would have to deal with a great many people trying to further their own agenda and being able to decipher the truth from a lie would be a must in his role. “It’s time you start learning how to play the game, Gendry. Read books to fuel your mind and hold conversations with travellers and others to expand your knowledge. Your legacy is being shaped by the choices you make today. As well as the type of king you will be.”

“I will be a good king,” Gendry said firmly and in that moment he wondered, not for the first time, if Tyrion would accept the position of Hand of the King once he ascended the throne. He could think of no-one better for the role, no-one he would trust more.

“I do not doubt you will try,” Tyrion replied, cracking a slight smile which caused Gendry to smile in return.

A knock at a mahogany door of Tyrion’s chambers captured their attentions. The door swung open revealing a slender young woman whom Gendry did not recognise, although he had a fair idea of her purpose in Tyrion’s chambers so late at night. 

Turning to his friend, Gendry raised an eyebrow to which Tyrion responded with a playful shrug, “I had a deep need to complain and she seemed willing to listen.”

“For how much gold?”

“That does not matter,” he said with a smile.

Saying his goodbyes, Gendry left Tyrion to his own devices and headed towards his own chambers.

___________________

The halls were dark with only occasional dim torches lighting the way. The quiet murmur of voices increased in volume as he neared his family’s living quarters. Sourcing the voices, Gendry continued along the corridor towards them. 

As he entered the lavishly-decorated, candlelit room, Joffrey’s quietly-spoken words reached his ears. His brother sat with his back to Gendry, and Cersei sat opposite him, a goblet of wine in her hand. “When I am king-“ Joffrey began, obviously in the middle of some rant or another. It was not such an uncommon occurrence to find his brother writhing with rage over some trivial matter or seething with jealously over being the second-born son, so Gendry did not think much of it.

Leaning against the doorframe, he interrupted, “ _You_ will never be king, brother.”

Joffrey snapped his head around to face him, scowling all the while. “And _you_ will never be my brother,” he retorted. It always struck Gendry as strange that he could pinpoint the exact moment when Joffrey began to hate him. As children they had always gotten along rather well considering that Joffrey had always been quite a petulant and demanding child. Some of his fondest memories involved running through the castle gardens with his brother, sharing pieces of blood oranges and playing tricks on their Maester when he tried to reel them in for lessons. But all that was a long time ago, and all that was left in Joffrey’s eyes when he looked at Gendry now was hatred and resentment. Most of the time Gendry hated him as well, but sometimes he looked at him and it wasn’t just hate he remembered; and he despised Tywin Lannister for poisoning Joffrey against him.

Gendry’s chuckle was devoid of all humour. “How lucky for me,” he said drily. “Not to have a brother who murders kittens for sport.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he rose and turned to face Gendry. “I do not have to stay here and listen to these false accusations,” he said before striding down the corridor towards his chambers, his footsteps thundering against the stone.

“Are you trying to insinuate the kitten murdered itself?” Gendry called with fake incredulousness as went before turning and refocusing his attention on Cersei. Her goblet was at her lips and she drank the sourwine freely, smiling slightly as it slid down her throat. 

“He doesn’t want to _be_ king. He wants to be _called_ king,” Gendry said.

“Is there a difference?” she asked. Her green eyes met his and they were gleaming with such malice that Gendry was taken aback for a moment. He never knew what to expect from Cersei. The day Tywin Lannister’s words had crawled inside Joffrey and taught him how to hate was the same day his words had crept inside Cersei and reminded her that she was first and foremost a lion of Casterly Rock and had absolutely no business behaving in any way kindly to the boy who was robbing her own flesh and blood of the throne. That was the day things changed. And now Cersei’s attitude towards him had the potential to change at any given moment; sometimes she tolerated him and sometimes she hated him. It was something Gendry had learned to live with.

“He wants the power of being a king without the responsibilities,” he argued.

She shrugged, sending droplets of wine everywhere as her goblet danced from side to side. “Power is the most important thing there is,” she said. “Besides, the _last_ thing the realm needs is another Baratheon king.”

“I am not my father,” Gendry protested in a firm voice.

Rising from her seat, Cersei moved towards him. “Not _yet_ ,” she said with a vicious smirk before brushing past him and leaving him alone with his lingering doubt.


	11. Chapter 11

Robb had been quick to suggest that they all spend the afternoon together. Although, it was blatantly obvious to everyone that this was an attempt of his to keep a better eye on Sansa, they were all pleasantly surprised when she agreed to it, without question or complaint. Indeed, Sansa hadn’t been raising much of an argument about anything recently. She hadn’t even bothered to bicker with Arya since the night Jon had brought her home from her meeting with Willas Tyrell, and Arya found herself oddly missing their fights over such silly things as her ineptitude at stitching. 

Her younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, were currently engaged in a splashing fight in the cool, blue river just a few feet away, and their shouts and laughs of delight echoed around them, filling the otherwise silent clearing. Arya resented that she could not join them. Usually, she would have no qualms about disobeying her mother about such trivial matters, especially when she knew she could get away with it. But Sansa would not hesitate to report her disobedience if it was carried out in front of her, and so Arya was stuck melting in the hot afternoon sun. Sighing, she wished she did not have a mother who placed so much importance on manners and what was right and proper for a girl of Arya’s age, considering manners mattered not a whit on the streets of King’s Landing anyway. If Arya did not know better, she would have given a lot more weight to the theory that she was being groomed for a life in the Red Keep. 

“She won’t thank me for this,” Arya heard Jon mutter to Robb, his gaze trained on their sister. Sansa sat less than a stone’s throw away from Jon, Robb, and Arya, her attention captured by the seemingly endless amount of daisy chains she had made that afternoon. While Arya and the boys had clashed their wooden swords against each other for sport, Sansa had busied herself with picking flowers. Arya thought it a curious thing that her sister had not mentioned Willas Tyrell since that night two weeks past, but when Bran had brought home word of his sudden departure from King’s Landing, Arya had seen the sorrow in Sansa’s eyes. The town was still rife with speculation about why he had left. The townspeople considered it somewhat strange for him to leave for Highgarden only a few days before the tourney to celebrate his father’s appointment as Hand of the King, and rumour had it the castle was abuzz with speculation about his departure as well. Sansa had shrugged off Robb’s attempts to speak to her about the matter, claiming she was fine, but Arya swore she heard the soft, muffled sounds of tears coming from her room late at night. 

Her sister’s quiet reverie was broken by Jon’s words. Despite the fact that she did not look up from the daisy chains that were currently occupying her lap, Arya could see the slight stiffening of her back at the sound of his voice. It took a few seconds for her to speak, “If you have it your way, you won’t be here for me to thank,” she said, raising her blue eyes to meet Jon’s grey ones. Her voice was soft, but there was a steel edge to it that Arya recognised from their numerous fights over the years. 

Startled, Arya glanced at Jon, but he did not meet her eyes, and she could see from Robb’s expression that he was just as confused about what Sansa had meant as she was. “What is she talking about?” Arya asked. She felt a nervous twinge in her stomach as she waited for Jon to speak, and it turned to full-on butterflies when his answer reached her ears.

“I have been giving a lot of thought to the possibility of travelling to the Wall,” he said quietly. “There is a group leaving from King’s Landing next week, and I’ve spoken to the recruiter about leaving with them.” 

Stunned, Arya opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to scream at him, to beg him to stay, but her words died on her tongue before they could reach the air. Instead, it was Robb who asked, “Do you intend to join the Night’s Watch or is this a sight-seeing adventure?” Arya could tell from the way his jaw clenched that he was less than happy with Jon’s revelation, but she also knew he probably would not interfere if he thought this was what Jon truly wanted. Mayhaps, she could convince him to stay though.

“I intend to join, yes,” Jon said shortly. Giving a quick, pointed look at Sansa, who could not even bring herself to meet his gaze, he rose and moved towards the riverbank to supervise Bran and Rickon, leaving the rest of his siblings behind in his shadow. It was in that moment, as he stood with his back to her that Arya realised that Jon, her favourite brother, had become a man. He was no longer a boy, and Arya was dismayed to realise that as Jon grew up, he was leaving her behind. In her dreams for the future, they had seen the Wall and the lands beyond the Wall together, but if Jon had his way this would never come to pass.

“That was not your secret to tell,” Robb said to Sansa, his voice hard. Arya had seen from her sister’s face that she had immediately regretted her words after saying them- instant shame had clouded her pretty features- but it didn’t feel like enough. 

__________________

 

“Gendry, do you _want_ to be king?” 

He glanced at her, curiosity taking over his features. The question was out of the blue, she knew, but Jon’s willingness to give up his freedom and dreams to devote his life to the Night’s Watch had gotten her thinking about hers. Once, when Gendry was explaining to her the reasons why he had not been upfront about his identity as a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, he had lamented his lack of freedom to do as he liked, and Arya wondered- if he were given the choice- whether he would leave it all behind. “Nobody has ever asked me that before,” he said, and he almost seemed unsure of how he should answer such a question. Arya supposed many princes were _born_ and not _made_ , and so the concept of a choice would be foreign to them. 

“It’s a simple question,” she prompted. She moved to sit beside him, leaning her back against the oak tree and laying the sword he had given her carefully on the ground next to her. His arm was hot against hers, and Arya felt a slight warmth flitter through her at the touch, but she ignored it and waited for him to continue.

Gendry sighed. “It’s not a simple answer,” he said. “If I do not take the throne, it will pass to my brother, Joffrey.” 

The stories Gendry had told her about Joffrey made her skin crawl, and Arya hoped she would never have the misfortune to meet him in person, but it still didn’t answer her question. “That’s not an answer,” she said, raising her eyes to his in an effort to urge him on.

“You noticed,” Gendry replied with a chuckle. He clutched strands of grass between his fingers as he continued, “There was once a prince, Aemon Targaryen, who rescinded his rights to the Iron Throne and joined the Night’s Watch. Sometimes I envy him his choice, I’ll admit, but the majority of time I do not. Just as your brother thinks the Night’s Watch is a noble reason to give up his freedom, so too do I think the well-being of the Seven Kingdoms is worth the price of my freedom. I never had a choice, Arya, but I have seldom resented that fact.”

“And if you were not a prince?”

“I just want to do something that matters,” he said with a smile, “whether that be as a king, a knight, or even a blacksmith. Would you give up _your_ freedom?” he asked, locking his blue eyes to her grey ones.

“I would never let anyone turn me into something I did not wish to be,” she declared. Arya’s dream was to have adventures. In the future, she would travel to each of the Seven Kingdoms, to the Wall and beyond to visit with the wildlings, and Arya especially wanted to sail across the Narrow Sea to Essos and Pentos and all the Free Cities that lay there. Jon had wanted adventures too, she thought sadly. When they were younger, they had planned to be smuggled on board a ship to Braavos to begin their adventures together, and Arya wondered when Jon had given up on those dreams. 

With a start, Arya realised that this must also be how Sansa was feeling at the moment. Arya knew her sister well enough to be certain that her dreams were to be a lady of a beautiful castle and to marry a handsome, charming man. But her marriage arrangements to Willas Tyrell was now well and truly ground to dust, and Arya could not help but feel pity for her older sister. 

“You’re so sure of yourself, Arya,” Gendry said, a glimmer of something Arya did not recognise filling his eyes. Something akin to nostalgia, she suspected, with a hint of teasing thrown in for good measure. “Sometimes I forget how young you truly are.”

Arya did not know what to make of that statement, but she knew one thing: Her dreams were still alive, Sansa’s were wounded, but Jon’s were going to be left to die at the Wall and Gendry’s dreams seemed to have never existed at all. 

Arya did not know which of them she felt most sorry for.

____________________

 

Night had fallen by the time she arrived home. After scuttling through the window of her chamber, Arya changed out of her dirty breeches and into something her mother would find more appropriate before heading downstairs. Jon and Robb were engaged in a game of Cyvasse, with Bran watching, in one corner of the room. Good-natured teasing slipped out of their mouths as they moved their pieces around the board, and Bran’s laughter filled the room. Her mother sat in another corner, telling a story to Rickon as she mended a pair of his britches, and he was listening with wide-eyed amazement. On the other side of the room, her father sat near the hearth, his attention fully captured by a book, but Sansa was notably absent. 

Catelyn glanced up, giving her a smile which Arya returned instantly, breathing a sigh of relief that her mother had not noticed how late she had returned. “Could you bring some food up to Sansa?” she asked. “She hasn’t been feeling well since she returned today.”

Arya nodded before gathering up a tray of light food and heading back upstairs. Balancing the tray on one hand, she knocked quietly on Sansa’s door before sliding it open and slipping inside. Her sister’s chamber was sparsely lit with infrequent candles dotting the room, and the shadows danced across the walls in accordance to the swaying of the tiny flames. Sansa sat at a desk, seemingly writing a letter, which Arya did not doubt was written in the finest cursive known to the Seven Kingdoms. She also suspected that it was a letter to Willas Tyrell. In fact, she would bet every single piece of the meagre pile of copper coins that was currently hidden in her bottom drawer on it.

The soft scratch of quill against paper ceased as the creek of the door alerted her to Arya’s presence. When Sansa glanced up at her, Arya realised that her blue eyes were shimmering with tears, and the pang of pity she had felt for her earlier that day returned in full force. 

It took a few seconds for words to come. Arya did not have much practice with trying to make Sansa feel better when she was down. In fact, she was usually the last person she wanted to see, and cheering her up was a job often left to Robb, Bran, or their mother. But Mother and Bran had no clue as to Willas Tyrell’s involvement in Sansa’s life, and since Robb had not managed to improve her mood, it was up to Arya. “Mayhaps he will come back,” she offered eventually, the words flowing out of her mouth before she realised she was saying them, but, nevertheless, it did not feel like a lie. 

Although, she disliked Sansa sometimes, she did still want her sister to get the things she wanted, but she also did not want Sansa to lose hope that she would get them either. Even though Jon and Robb seemed to be certain of Willas Tyrell’s less than honourable intentions, Arya still had a tiny sliver of doubt that they were wrong, and she knew Sansa was carrying a mountain of doubt around with her. 

“Mayhaps,” Sansa echoed, her gaze returning to her letter before she left out a sigh. “If Jon had not interfered-“ 

“Jon was trying to do what was best for you,” Arya interrupted, laying the tray on Sansa’s desk. “Jon always tries to do what is best for all of us.” Her fierce loyalty to her older brother flared in her chest.

“I did not ask him to,” Sansa gritted out.

Arya shrugged. “You didn’t _have_ to,” she argued. “He’s our _brother_.” The only time she had seen Willas and Sansa together was at a distance in the marketplace, and, although, she had thought that they seemed to be in love then, she still believed Jon was right in what he did. If Willas really did feel strongly for her, mayhaps he would not have left so easily. But she could not tell Sansa that, for she did not think her sister would listen. Arya might have spent her entire life dreaming of adventures, but Sansa had spent her entire life listening in amazement- as closely as Rickon was listening to their mother downstairs- to tales and songs of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Florian the Fool. In truth, Arya was certain she would not listen, and she could not see the point in wasting her breath discussing the matter. 

Dropping her quill, Sansa murmured, “He will never be my brother.” Arya was surprised to detect a hint of regret in her tone, and although she hated her for saying it, Arya knew it was the truth, even if she didn’t think it was right. Jon and Sansa had never been close, nowhere near as close as she and Jon were, and she could never understand why Sansa placed so much emphasis on Jon being their father’s bastard son and so little emphasis on the fact that he had looked out for them their entire lives.

“Mayhaps you do not deserve a brother like him anyway,” Arya retorted before turning and leaving Sansa alone with her heartache.


	12. Chapter 12

The murmured agreement from inside the Small Council’s chambers flooded around Gendry’s ears, echoing in them until it was the only thing he heard. The hustle and bustle of the people around him was washed cleanly away until that sound was all that was left in the world. Trepidation settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach at the sound, and he clenched his fists when he thought of what it meant. 

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he turned to Tyrion, who sat on the cold, hard bench beside him. “Do you think that is what they are really discussing?” he asked, not daring to say the words. The heavy, mahogany door hardly left any noise escape the room, so Gendry still had a sliver of hope that it might not be true.  


Tyrion had sat so quietly and so still for the entirety of the Small Council’s meeting that Gendry was beginning to suspect that he had turned to stone. His attention had been captured completely the moment the Small Council members had gathered together, exchanging hushed whispers and meaningful looks before disappearing inside the chamber. Giving a pointed look at Gendry, he had moved them from their Cyvasse game to this bench, and he had not budged so much as an inch since. Gendry trusted Tyrion’s perception of the situation, and although he was not majorly shocked, he was still a little surprised that his father had not discussed this matter with him personally before taking it to the Small Council. 

“Well, I highly doubt they are discussing drainage options in there,” Tyrion said, his eyes never leaving the door, almost as if he believed a moment’s diversion of his attention would cause him to miss the reveal to come. “Though mayhaps they should be. There is a lot of _shit_ that should be flushed out of King’s Landing and most of can be found inside that chamber.”

Remembering Tyrion’s previous appointment at Casterly Rock where he was in charge of the cisterns and drains, Gendry commented, “You would be the expert.”

A grin broke out on Tyrion’s face at his words. “Don’t you start being funny,” he said. “You’ll render me useless.”

The door swung open as Tyrion finished his sentence, and his laughter died on his lips as the men of the Small Council trickled out, one by one. Some faces wore smiles, but some had frowns so deep that the lines on their faces would be enough to challenge those on a crumbled piece of paper. As Mace Tyrell exited the chamber, Tyrion straightened up, and Gendry followed suit. 

His father strode out, looking more alive than Gendry had ever seen him without Lyanna Stark’s name falling from his lips, and he knew in an instant what this meant. The truth was plain on his face, and the stone in Gendry’s stomach grew heavier with the weight of it. 

“War it is,” Robert said, his voice booming around the throne room. Men and women immediately stopped in their tracks. It was a rare sight to see the king sober, and an even rarer sight to see him taking control of matters concerning the realm. In that moment, he looked every inch the man his Maesters had told him stories of when he was a child, the man he used to be before Lyanna Stark had ran away with the Dragon Prince, before the Great Fire of Winterfell had happened and, indeed, before Gendry had even been born. 

In the past, it had been Jon Arryn who had carefully and meticulously ran the realm- brokering peace with Dorne and with the Greyjoys after their first rebellion- while Gendry’s father had sat back and concentrated on drinking himself into an early grave. Now the fabric of peace that Jon Arryn had spent so many years weaving was unravelling in an instant, and Gendry resented the Small Council for enabling his father to do as he liked without first considering the cost to the realm.  


“The fields will be drenched red with their blood,” Robert continued. “This time none will escape my wrath, and you can tell every single Greyjoy scum I said that.”  
“Inspiring words,” Tyrion muttered under his breath, so softly that Gendry was certain he was the only one who could hear, while Lord Mace Tyrell started a round of applause that bounced off the high walls of the Throne Room. 

The king left, the Small Council following closely behind, and the Throne Room descended into whispers at his departure. The whispers buzzed around Gendry’s ears. There appeared to be a divided reaction among the other people present; some seemed happy with the decision while others did not hide their dismay. 

Ignoring them, Gendry asked Tyrion, “Did this have to happen?”

“There have been rumours that the Greyjoys have been planning a rebellion,” Tyrion conceded.

“But?” Gendry prompted.

“ _But_ the king has a thirst for war and no appetite for peace,” he replied, his mismatched eyes locking with Gendry’s. “If the king desires a war, then there are surely those in his service who could plant a few well-placed rumours to make it a feasible option to initiate attack.” 

“Jon Arryn was the only thing standing between us and war,” Gendry commented.

“Yes,” his companion agreed. “Jon Arryn knew how to control your father’s urges, but, without a good Hand, your father will do as he likes, and the realm will suffer for it. For some men, peace breeds discontent and boredom. They are never happy unless they’re planning on stabbing someone in the gut and that is the truth of it.” Tyrion stood up, stretching his limbs before speaking again. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better go pack,” he said.

“Pack?” Gendry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Oh, yes,” Tyrion replied. “I figure we have a couple of months before your father gathers his troops, and there is one thing I must do first.”

“And what would that be?”

“Piss off the edge of the world,” Tyrion called over his shoulder as he left, and Gendry could not help the grin that took up residence on his face at his words.

________________________________________

 

Thoughts of the impending war disappeared when he laid eyes on Arya later that afternoon. The concerns of being a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to melt away to nothingness in her presence, and Gendry was grateful for the refrain from the onslaught of thoughts and questions that had plagued his mind since his father had officially declared war on House Greyjoy. 

They went exploring. Instead of heading to their usual spot near the river, they had stolen through the Iron Gate- Arya having distracted the unsuspecting guards so Gendry could escape unnoticed- and spent the afternoon sparring and swapping stories with only the beauty of the Blackwater Bay for company. 

Gendry had swiped two blood oranges from the kitchens, along with a couple of bread rolls and cheese, and so they had had a picnic of sorts on a cliff overlooking the bay, their bare feet swaying free over the edge. 

The wind loosened Arya’s braid, and Gendry laughed at how frustrated she became as her hair splayed out in all directions. Grumbling, she tucked it into a messy bun before jumping up quickly and turning to face him again. The garnets of her sword glinted brightly in the sparse sunlight as she raised it. He mimicked her movements and they duelled once more, dancing around each other and hardly noticing as the light began to dim. 

They were both breathless by then, but neither could seem to get the upper hand or mayhaps neither was trying hard enough to force a victory. Their sparring had turned into a welcome companionship, and neither was especially fussed about getting the upper hand anymore. They could always argue about it afterwards, he thought and, indeed, they usually ended up doing just that. 

It took just an instant for Arya to tumble over a displaced rock hidden in the grass, and Gendry grimaced as the edge of her sword scratched across the inside of his wrist- drawing blood that matched the colours of the stones on her sword- before she was hurdled to the hard ground. 

After a few seconds she raised herself from where she had fallen, and made her way towards him, wobbling slightly on one ankle. “Are you hurt?” she asked, concern evident on her face.

The force of the wind ruffled his hair as he inspected the wound, his sword and hers lying forgotten on the ground. “It’s just a scratch,” he assured her. A dull ache was beginning to move up and down his inner forearm, but Gendry had had far worse injuries in his life, and this one did not faze him in the slightest. He was certain the wound would heal in time, although whether it would leave a small scar remained to be seen. 

Examining the wound with her serious grey eyes, Arya moved her fingers down to the edge of her overlarge shirt- more than likely stolen from one of her older brothers- before ripping a strip. “Here,” she said. “We can use this to cover the wound, but Mother always says to make sure it has been washed properly first.”  
They did not have any wine to boil, and so, after Gendry promised to seek out his Maester the second he returned to the Red Keep, Arya doused it with the rest of the water he had brought with him and set about wrapping the clean strip of cloth around his wrist. The edge of her nail grazed the underside of his wrist as she did so, and Gendry could not help the strange sort of nervousness that began to swim through his veins at the contact. The strange feeling only got worse as her cool fingers replaced her nail. When he flinched slightly, she looked at him with questioning eyes, but he shrugged it off- not wanting his thoughts to linger on what it might have meant- and she continued. 

Gendry played the part of a perfect patient while she worked. He sat still, raised the hem of his sleeve, and obeyed every order to turn his wrist this way and that. Even though, Arya lamented that she was not as good at this kind of thing as her mother or her older sister, Sansa, Gendry found she did quite a good temporary fix anyway. 

Noticing how the darkness was sneaking its way quickly across the late evening sky, they decided to head home. In the shadow of the Dragon Pit, they made their way through the labyrinth of streets that formed Flea Bottom. 

A foul stench bit his nostrils, growing stronger and fiercer the more they walked, and it took Gendry a moment to realise that it smelled like death. As he glanced at Arya, he could see the narrow slits of her eyes as they darted left and right and he knew then that she suspected something was wrong also. Her hand flew up to rest on the pommel of her sword, and he quickly copied her action.

When they rounded the corner, the eerie silence hit them like a sudden blow to the chest. There wasn’t a sound to be heard, and Gendry thought it almost seemed as if the world around them was holding its breath. 

Flea Bottom was usually packed with people at this time of the night. Whores and drunkards were known to litter these streets, and Gendry had always made it a rule to move as swiftly as he could through this part of the city at night. This was not a place you wanted to linger. 

But tonight, there was not a sound, save for their soft footsteps and their shallow breaths. The nearer they moved towards the centre of Flea Bottom, the fainter the scarce light became. The roofs of the houses above them grew closer and closer together until, after a while, they almost seemed to knit together. Arya and Gendry quickly found themselves shrouded in darkness, the light of the moon and stars being hidden from their eyes. 

After a few moments, the narrow passageway opened up into a small square, and Gendry breathed a sigh of relief as light began to bathe their surroundings again. Rough voices could be heard yelling from the other side of the square, and Arya and Gendry exchanged a worried look. 

Though it was still rather dark, Gendry could see the silhouettes of the group up ahead. He gave a quick look around the square. There were people huddled in corners, dirty and shivering, and in front of the angry group was a line of Gold Cloaks. Glancing at his friend, he could see Arya swallowing thickly, trying to keep herself from vomiting up everything in her stomach. After taking a deep breath through her mouth, she asked, “What’s happening?”

“I have no idea,” he replied, and as soon as the words left his mouth, the commotion up ahead grew louder. 

“Let us out of here!” Gendry heard a man’s voice shout, the people around him echoing his cry. 

“This is a quarantine zone,” one of the Gold Cloaks said. He was bad and appeared to be in charge of this situation. His voice was hard, as hard as the steel that had forged Gendry’s sword, and he knew immediately that the men had no chance of winning their argument against him. “No man, woman, or child may pass.”

“You can’t keep us locked in here like animals,” another man piped up. Gendry could hear the anger in his voice, and he could not blame him for it. It was then the horrific stench made sense to him. It was the smell of death. It was the smell of the Bloody Flux.

Gendry began to move towards the front of the crowd, but no sooner had he taken a step when the anger of the crowd overwhelmed them and they charged the guards. 

Their little rebellion failed, and in mere seconds Gendry found himself surrounded by the bruised and battered remains of the crowd. Without thinking, his arm stretched out to keep Arya away from the conflict. “You need to let us pass,” he said, speaking directly to the bald man in charge. “Some of these people need medicine.”

A harsh laugh escaped the man’s mouth, one entirely devoid of humour. “I don’t have to let you do anything,” he said. His sword travelled up Gendry’s chest, to rest its cold point at the base of his throat. “Who exactly do you think you are to give orders to me?”

“I am the son of the king,” Gendry gritted out as Arya tugged on his hand, her fingers trembling slightly. 

“Half the children in this city are the bastards of the king,” the Gold Cloak spat as the row of his peers laughed from behind him. With a snort of disgust, he lowered his sword. “Question me again and I’ll break your legs,” he threatened before ordering the rest of the Gold Cloaks to patrol the nearby streets.

With no choice left to them, Arya and Gendry found a vacant corner to sleep for the night. The darkness crept around them as they lay down. Gendry could almost feel its cool breath prickling the back of his neck as it surrounded them like a cocoon, enveloping them in their own little world. It felt almost safe here, although he knew it wasn’t safe at all, not with Gold Cloaks and enraged, embittered common folk surrounding them on all sides. He could sense that Arya knew this too. 

Arya lay with her back to him. She shivered, and it made every kind of perfect sense to pull her closer to him-so he did, the curve of her spine resting against his chest- but it didn’t make any sense at all.


End file.
